Canada Let my poetry speak for me, so listen carefully
“Do you know the legend about cicadas? They say they are the souls of poets who cannot keep quiet because, when they were alive, they never wrote the poems they wanted to.”
— Jo 24 followers / 860 words
Her mother named her White Dahlia, the consequence of unplanned pregnancy while studying forensics. Or so
she told the boy selling orchids in popcorn bags (he ran out of sheet music and poetry books). Renaming her Orchid he’d ram into her all night so their breathing would fog up the windows, an eternal 21C. A common misconception:
flowers have no bones. He learned what it means to have a backbone when she broke his fangs like sugar cubes.
A glass slide is too small a coffin for one convinced she was “beloved”. The strawberry cigarette ash should have been the tip-off. Rarely will a botanist throw their own child under Industry’s wheels.
Originally published by Vending Machine Press, December 2014
I sold my soul for a memory of you, one not even long enough to be recorded
on vinyl and small enough to trap in the empty pen I used to write
down these words. In a sense you’re now eternal since souls are boundless and
yours is now my ink. Don’t warn your children of strangers or drugs, rather of soul buyers
on street corners at 8PM in July. Rejection itself is enough of a drug.
(Sold/lost: a reverse connotation where one letter is enough to overlook the mistranslation)
This is what all these playlists and vintage shops do to me, paired up with the fact that I see you escorting a new girl into your car every day and knowing I won't be one of them; foolish, considering the fact you've already said "no".
Nothing lulls to sleep quite like concrete waves of endless tarmac roads, the car christened Frau Marienkäfer by raindrops of a passing thundercloud. Baby butterfly whose pigments are smeared across the windshield – were you chasing the ‘Big City’ dream like all the rest?
Written on a rainy night, around 9PM, just as we entered the Lincoln Tunnel to drive into Manhattan.
To girls who dream of being fairy princesses: turn your balconies into paradise greenhouses, and every night sing each of the Thumbelinas
to sleep. Frost's flowers crowd beneath my fingers, the young moon peaking in. I dare not invite you again - your mind exploded into a nebula last time you saw so many lights. My tiny Thumbelinas have gotten married, with Thumbelinas of their won. I kiss their frostbitten flowers awake. I promised. Blue fingertips have become a norm, a childhood reminder of a wish for blue blood. It thaws
outside. Wee Thumbelinas weep. The ferns unfurl. My lullabies make plants awaken, not from the beauty, but of dying loyalty.
one of the gifts for your birthday was nonexistent constellations etched in your skin cascading down your shoulders evoking subdued squirms my ever gallant one
I swore they'd guide you home these nebulas of crooked flora dusted with sugary swirls of the Milky Way a biblical formula of unquestionable permanence but
it was I who followed the ink which washed down your drain through sewers out to sea it was permanence shelter which skin couldn't give and in those lullabies the ocean sang I saw the stars clearer a better map than all your body combined could ever give to cure cosmic wanderlust