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Margaryta Mar 2014
a world was hidden,
one in one,
a water layer in-between. those
within dreamed of swimming
up, the waves partial to those
above. I loved to sit at my
world’s edge, gazing longingly
below. my mind and feet
would often fight of diving
through the depths. the day the two had
had enough I pierced the ocean’s
blue, my skin kissed by the water slugs,
air bubbles like crystal eyes.

their world was like a hovering jellyfish awaiting
to strike. he was there, the one I cannot name,
thrashing thirstily to get out; I
loved him in one glance. only when my
oxygen ran out I swam up and
left the trapped world behind, prey
to be devoured. I loved him less as I climbed out,
and loved him naught back at the shore.

I sat at my world’s edge, once gazing longingly
below. my mind and feet got softer
with their fighting. the waves bore down on those below,
washing over those on top. a water layer
covered the top world, a world
below swallowing the one
above. what good was knowing how to swim
when miserable rage was fed, a sea urchin gobbling
the whale; it did not wait to
be served.
Margaryta Mar 2014
The time we met would be
allegro, a boisterous time when
I unlearned how to
breath. It became an
allegretto, the
crescendo long behind,
awaiting the
diminuendo with an
alto near the end. It
was like all great
feverish until the
fall and
when we fell, oh
how we tumbled,
con dolore.
allegro: cheerful or brisk; but commonly interpreted as lively, fast
allegretto: a little lively, moderately fast
crescendo: growing; i.e., progressively louder
diminuendo, dim.: dwindling; i.e., with gradually decreasing volume
alto: high; often refers to a particular range of voice, higher than a tenor but lower than a soprano
mesto: mournful, sad
lacrimoso or lagrimoso: tearfully; i.e., sadly
con dolore: with sadness
Margaryta Mar 2014
child of two moons
        the harvest wheat grows
        on its stalks

daughter of the broken king
        your carousel’s chained bears and albino
        peacocks scream at night for
        their release

lonely lover
        the keyhole is  rusted since he last
        touched you
        the oil getting rancid

martyred saint
        your doe heart has an arrow of Cupid’s
        skewering through a demon’s
        confession written in fire

weeping widow
        your maid took your cup of tears
        to water the lilies giving
        root at his grave

sanguine seamstress
        do not stitch the bird’s
        wing that has bashed
        out its brains

non-existent soul mate
        your fingerprints stain
        my poems
        with star grease

lover whose number I lost track of
        I feel your footsteps ricochet
        within my bones please
        stop running I’m trying to sleep
Margaryta Jun 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".
Margaryta Jun 2014
At 5 I was convinced I was
a flower
whose vocation was imitating
their final hysterical
once Winter awoke from its

I pleaded my case with
a botanist
whose seamstress wife consented to stitch
a tutu of Kadupul
like a fairy godmother warning of their death at

At 16 I finally danced
their goodbye,
petals whisked off as if molted
layers of skin
and only when at the end I stood naked
did the concept of death have
Margaryta Mar 2014
Each time she looked at paintings they came alive
yet the worst were always seascapes whose
rage spilled over the corners of their frames
It would be more romantic to say paintings cried
and battle scenes raged with war and bedlam
or dead kings must be rolling in their graves
knowing their immortalized wives gave flowers
to twenty first century Davids
She needn’t touch when a gaze is as golden
but tell that to the staff of the Louvre Prado or Rijksmuseum
who put her face on wanted signs
The Mona Lisa was the final straw who witnessed
with ancient eyes the world’s sole painting whisperer
stain marble floors not with tears but blood
But why not
Who wishes to know that all they really know is
that much of what they know is wrong?
Margaryta Aug 2015
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
Margaryta Mar 2014
"Inside the box is
Man's greatest enemy"; in
It was a mirror.
Part of my (ongoing) Haiku collection entitled "The Cabinet of Memories"
Margaryta Apr 2014
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

it was I who followed the ink which
washed down your drain
through sewers out to sea
        it was permanence
        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
Margaryta Mar 2014
make me a gramophone – sew
it from the scraps of our shattered past,
the vinyl  our memories that play
‘round on repeat. to them
we’ll dance around in animal masks like
the beasts we are.
a lion purrs,
a walrus roars,
a seahorse crushes bone,
and when we’re done we’ll rip apart
our fickle gramophone.
music, gramophone, whimsical, vintage, vinyl, dance, memories
Margaryta Mar 2014
I am a nymph, caged in a greenhouse,
arms overgrown by white orchids;
my lover has hidden me away from the world.
Little goats keep me company,
nipping the orchids which cover my arms.
I dream of the forest, the babbling brook,
the laughter of rain,
hungering for freedom, the touch of the moon.
Like in a desert do I feel here,
this love suffocates me, drying my roots
until I wilt from this illusion.
And when he comes to water me at dawn
greeted is he by my frail still body,
a coffin spun by diamond spiders.
Margaryta Mar 2014
She had a black cat
On her neck and still questioned
Why she had bad luck.
Part of my (ongoing) Haiku collection entitled "The Cabinet of Memories"
Margaryta Mar 2014
One stormy autumn afternoon
A question was asked by my philosophy prof:
"Does life have a smell or taste?"
The girl in the back,
The one with the bruises,
Started laughing.
Must have been an inside joke.
"Life smells of ***** when you're sure
Your lover has left you."
Her voice was a rasp,
Probably nights of endless screaming.
"It tastes like blood and broken promises.
It's beautiful and poisonous,
Sugar and morphine rolled up in a joint
That we all smoke to die."
My prof asked the others for answers
But every time he tried to say whose was best
The thunder screamed its protest,
The lightning flashing and illuminating
The sad and broken shell
With her lover's name etched in her skin.
Part of the summer 2013 poetry collection "Memoirs of a Phobic"
Margaryta Mar 2014
Twinkle twinkle little fish,
How sad you look in my dish.
You've ignored my warning so
Now I'll never let you go.
Can't you tell my heart is pure?
Of you I have the utmost sure.
Your bones I'll bury close to here
So everyday your ghost is near,
For I'm a cat and you're a fish
That ended up right in my dish.
Margaryta Mar 2014
you were a sailor of the stars
who scooped me up into your arms
from cosmic whales you rescued me
and plucked me from their sleepy sea
I was a damsel in distress
the common living human mess
I was too much for you to bear
and so you tossed me back with care
Margaryta May 2014
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.
Margaryta May 2014
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.
Margaryta Mar 2014
If only poets could also be perfumers, imagine
the wonders they could bottle (as I am no poet,
forgive this concoction, but I couldn't resist).
It smells like our love, give it a whiff.

Those top notes you smell? Scales of butterfly wings
and paper, new guitar strings and pollia
berry. You can catch a slight odor of your
much-hated fish fins (I swore you were a child of the ocean).

It gets deeper at the heart, excuse my pun and
irony (your heart turned out more shallow than my
bathroom sink).

Here tequila meets *****, the night bleeds into
day. An orchid on the verge of rot, a mouthful
of condensed milk and tears to kiss away the
growing, gaping ****.

Only near the end notes does this spell truly
break (so forgive the “midnight” reference I put in the formula).
When you smell the crushed angel wings and
blood-soaked, shattered
chandelier, a paprika heart beating wildly,
remember the smell of bruises and nightmares.

I trust you need no recipe to recreate
this masterpiece but not in the same proportion,
bottle, ways; I refuse to be your donor of raw
human juices.
Margaryta Apr 2014
I can’t forgot those
butterfly eyes filled up with
caterpillar lies
butterfly, caterpillar, love, romance, haiku
Margaryta Apr 2014
Never cook with a fairy tale omnibus
open on a kitchen table,
or confuse salt with sugar.

Cherry-pit pies are like eating dragon bones, as to
be expected of one taught to
        never cook with a fairy tale omnibus,

safer to love a beast than to open up to
strangers, precise butchers cutting hearts
        open on a kitchen table;

I love you like salt, preach obedient daughters, omitting
the ease to mix dream with wake
        or confuse salt with sugar.
Margaryta Mar 2014
Instead of waves the
Japanese should paint your face
on cups, *koishii
Koishii - Dear or Beloved (Japanese)
Margaryta Mar 2014
I put light bulbs into roses
And I tried to make them grow,
But no further than my workbench
Would they ever even go.
I connected them with wires, clips –
I’ve tried it all:
Drew out diagrams on yellowed paper,
Labelled in my chicken scrawl.
Once the electrician came to look.
“What have you been doing girl?”
It was then that at my workbench
A bag of fertilizer did he hurl.
Gone then were the wires, clips;
Gone the ashes on the floor.
All that’s left were wilted roses
Piled up right by the door.

— The End —