the cost of fabricating dreams (&attempted sleep at three)
anxiety, prone insomniacs, huddle& whimper
at the latter-rungs of the nocturnal, wide-eyed ones
do you suffocate, from self-woven cocoons, this summer

we share the fruit amongst our, selves, bleeding bite
after

palms, folded& extended, good intentions
halved

quarantine paled spirits chilled from incessant rain
a drawn-out chalk line of mental burials murals
this salt pillar collapses with a hand extended
the flood will carry our bodies, over this chasm, beyond

i.
love enforcement
will pluck my tongue out
if i stutter
on rose colored verses

ii.
hands cuffed
for a misspelled text message
there's a small rebel requiring
lobotomical intervention

iii.
operation success
a manifesto etched
on my full, glowing heart
still as a stone

sandwiched in your laughs,
sunlight of a thousand crisp mornings,
not one bit contaminated by the night

you've grown soft as you pick
out your words, dusting off the edges
marshmallow bite sized

soft fists, air punches, trimming down
your claws, diving down into safe
snowy white pages, and now

i can no longer explain to you
how my pain is not your pain
and how your pain is not mine

care to listen, all my
pauses and blank spaces are intended
my reluctance habitual

shield the moon from my thoughts

horizon shrouded in dim light
will stars fall in these reflective eyes
rain beaten hydrangea, summer limes

we left our crosswords unfinished
new stitches on patchwork quilt skins
it is on dead earth we stand before
any buttons are pressed

out of sight then out of
conceptualization, the rite of
forgetting, a slow, annual, funeral
they disappear in the dark corners

no one would, remember, not unless
we seal pain under our wounds
like what amber does to time

we dwindle in our respective paths
no one dares to ask
of the outcome

hush-hush, silent-oathed
diminishment
cut and let drip

your dark scarlet secret
over the circle, ten-fold
winding up grief like a corkscrew

the flowers bloom and fall
discarded heads, lopped off
cartwheeling away to the undergrowth

souls cannot be sold, for souls
were never in our free possession
the springtime that died within you,

tell me, identify, the direction
of the noose and the siren
where the moon collapses

my heart is filled with love
the cavity on the right hand side
of my chest is filled with love
i hold my heart in my hands
it glistens
twitching in enveloped air

this here is my heart
my heart it is here

the crown of suffering, if one
human being can bear it, then it is
fit
for everyone

the darkness we keep at bay
rocking, roaring waves of equity
we burnt them into ash

whether to rise up in a puff,
to be used and attack your enemy
or to be spread thinly. leveled
with with the gentle touch of fingers
to identify blood vessels and the cracks
where dust held in closed fists turned into fear

the process to describe
the contour and substance of air
is now redundant, hence meaningless

(its lack of practicality
determined its void of meaning
and shall now be buried in the earth,
along the direction hinted
by dozens of pointing fingers)

moral or immoral, such a framework
has put a lock on this collapsible
black swallowing hole, and added,
in postscript,

this here is a black hole,
an expression of observable,
diagnosable,
not so much treatable,
sickness which undermines
a certain validity of the carrier

as if, the muscles of the safety net
are torn into bloodied strings of flesh
and in there a voice declares with clarity
that the weak must die.

punches, soft as sticky rice *****
a brain filled with cotton and confectioneries
never could arrange bony hands to get
the recipe right
for a makeshift bottle of glass

before the head clears enough to think,
you rot in the field like fruit

passerby, throw your punches
in the air for me as i
covertly steal bricks, pilfered
from sidewalks, do not mind me
i have my bridges to build, all
impromptu assembles, a collage of
old jokes tasting of mothballs
the skyline burns orange and i
am thinking we can do better
than tapping the flash button
tear walls down and devour
printed words, maybe soiled hands
hit harder than under pristine conditions
invisible cuts and bruises untreated
are now taking shape in acceleration
aim sentimental poetry at me,
so i can bleed a strange
assortment of lines, aim better

if i climb into your skin
will i then gain
happiness
heartbeats on sync
breathing layered
passing through you
passing you through
like an item of clothing
now pull the arms past
the sockets of sleeves
finger to finger
tips pressing tight
i take up your emptiness
or do i reside in your
innards? toss and turn
bicolor pieces
on othello board
vocal cord chorus
nail breaking scratches
open eyes wide
to look, equipped with them

nothing sprouts this april out from chipped flowerpots
broken teeth and extended claws will settle along
with dusty roots. cup hope in your hands and run,
it never overflows but drains only. the spring air
tastes of my own breath, in circulation
the rims of eyes tinged pink, pickled on both sides
with salt in tears. we shall retire into stagnation.
blow my brains out with a can of 3% liquor
and spoil my lungs speckled black with peppermint cigs

specks of light caught in cobwebs, in the downward dust spiral
we are betrayed without precedence. if my body is a vessel of water
for tears and sweat and blood, a container of salt,
maybe the crystallized pain within me has clouded
my judgment. gray little rain clouds rising
a forecast denied for all who is seeing. i see you,
from a lit screen, a cracked surface, the lunacy
exchanging i love yous like goodbyes, but this is
not the last. this house is built on quicksand and we
have heard the cracks in walls groan from long ago
a reflex put off, all it takes is a gust of air
to rip across this house of flimsy cards.

this candlelight won't last till morning but take
away my humble offerings. at least we can still
whisper. we still have hands attached to arms attached to
tired brains to make the excursion to close windows shut
from firework lights. every month is the cruelest
and the cracked ground swallows, it's no fond thought
in wishing one day our atoms will walk in air,
tread places we will never afford to go. we no longer
sleep in the same hours but the pauses in your typing
drain away the life of us both. insanity becomes the new
sanity. the flame in your eyes would be distracted
before it dies off in its own time. do we not fill
the gaps in our thinking with mindless chatter
and call it a day. you won't smell the smoke or alcohol
in my words through long distance 4G telecommunications

how did we sink low enough, so that every sound night
of sleeping becomes a blessing, how is it consolation
knowing that morning light will surely break, what then
we are suspended once more in a black tunnel
perhaps the only change is that they no longer bothered
to turn on the lights. of course, this too will pass, distorted
overwritten then forgotten, as we walk blindly,
taking distance, not holding hands, step after step after
the direction we assume to be forward,
exchanging i love yous like farewells.

sing me to sleep,
siren serenades
now i sink my head

into the clear
absence of light
strike me down

as you would a match
blow the flicker
in hiccuping breaths

my ribs break in wings
as the slumbering city
glides in graying brain matter

don't doze off sideways, the night is
still too young to be cut short, i rob
off your goodwill like a collector of debts
a smile for a smile, a wink for a chipped tooth

time files past freshly slew, if
i could i would, suspend all sunrises
the metamorphoses of bone structure is
as distasteful as the future, unsustainable

the water's at your nostrils so don't speak
or swallow, the air too thick to cut
through, tear apart the ends of your threads
and show me, bring me your casket of snakes

we never saw our betrayal stamp towards us
our bones red, catching fire, but the smoke
never blackened my vocal cords and vowels
so now i scream a old scream

here we stand, unsteady
on the border, the precipice, the top
as the wind courses through us
as we fail
to grasp concepts that are much larger
than our physical capacities, of flesh
(and not even at each others' fingertips)
if we close our eyes and free-fall
into the swirls of dust and numbers that do not add up
and sparkling red wine that tasting of rust (but
our mouths are dry no matter how much we drink it,
you don't see it but i see
the ground cracking beneath and the blame
is on me)
the alcoholic's pain of a burning stomach,
a proof of living sane
after the rain and after the flowers die out
maybe death will be the next normalcy
and thoughts on morbidity a visionary trait
haven't we lost enough already, even words
with no meaning attached behind clean facades,
arranged in rhythm, soft and without edge
designed, then, to praise and placate
is it not a crime to do so/ how can we ever
avert our gazes and say the sky is blue?
(maybe i feel too much)
you feel, but you do not understand
my jumble of words, aimed not for comprehension
(and so today i'll hope the pills work
when i see tomorrow's sunrise a bit of light
will hit my face saying it will all be alright while)
life in its entirety derails
but you still laugh,
at the mimetic surfaces of the feigned everyday
waiting for summer

look at the men with blood on their hands,
appearing on national television. let us
restart the month, the year, the decade,
the century of failures. open the doors
leading outside, open the floodgates
our modern bodies ill-suited for this flight
let's make flower garlands out of chicken wire
crippled souls nibbled away in isolation, tasting
of insanity or like a horrible joke
reinvent the wheel along the ambulance sirens
this time, the air kills with immediacy

Try finding the right words, do not worry over
Inaccuracy, as long as they are not insincere.
If you do not feel like speaking out, we can always take cover
and whisper, with open eyes. Brush out its contours/
With chapped hands.

.
Speak:
A beat, a rhythm, ba-dumm, a heartbeat or a pulse
Heart shaped like a potato. Tendons and veins,
Flesh and blood.            A secret.
Air in circulation. Breathing habitual. Inertial.
Where do weeds grow.
.

Air tight room with oxygen running low or
The lowering steel gate, spikes eating into shoulder blades
Spin the roulette of words made to disappear
Words unconscious, dragged away into the shadows
Hitting the wall, hit,
the momentum will only break
not it but me, nothing catches fire aside for young bodies
Mere speculation is not plotting schemes
They have planted me here. I tame my hand
to be my ventriloquist
The songbird with firecracker enthusiasm
Is it unforgivable to deny the drums?
They have my fingerprints

I have offered them. My flesh for their foundation
The community card etched
Onto where my heart was, now a cave of blood

words, written, spoken, unspoken, thought out
in silence, dug out from stitched wounds, unearthed,
                           red, wet, and palpitating
we push back only to be consumed by
the silence

we whisper   under the shallow sunlight
our feet nowhere near the door

in spring i buried my body

it was a most useless corpse,
it can't even sprout

love, of the real kind
is --
bitter, is dignified
as the ground, burning

like you, you and me

are we allowed to flee? through
the barricade, streets
covered in bits of brick & glass
shards, sight of the rifle fixed to aim

at the rising hind of a hare. but my eyes:
stuck
blind under the flashing lights
burn
in the stinging dust

the sun has set/ in this city
in my ears i hear the marching thump of blood
running to the ends
of my limbs

and it always was and is, me
me and you
me, my, i, and mine,
the power games we play

(i don't want to cling apart from you, not a single day)

(like magnets we are drawn tightly before pushed apart)

the phrases you thought
were representations of love, are
in actuality, stalker speech

maintain the madness
scrape away reason

do as you like it

(it is love which dissects your mind
love that holds on to the hand of the blind
love that flows out from the speakers and asks
us to gather, in communion
love that courses through the veins, its color

isn't it beautiful

and charged, dizzy, spellbound with it, of it,
we marched upon clouds)

isn't it terrible

oh come no closer for you will not understand why i dance
with my eyes closed & my body responding to the rhythm
of summer rain. You do not understand because you have a secured
roof over your head. All of your advances are aimed at surfaces,
you lost before you even begin, forever banned / from my solitude.
We do not speak. Our mouths are pried open
with hollow words sputtered out in desperation, while the
chilled room laughs at us, even the cobwebs. I am
also at fault. I can't string my thoughts with links secure,
and you are lovely for thinking my gibberish rhymes like a song.

I sprint, I run, I fall, and run again. my dusty&bruised knees
supporting dusty&bloodied hands in full swing propelled
by the motion, forward. If I don't hurry I'll forget
the confusion, the chaos, the mess I made / in my head
But it's getting so hard to remember.
& it hurts to take a breath.

I am the absence and you are just beginning
don't lose sight or sidetrack. Keep to your path.

moonlight, concrete, 1997
polaroid, grayscale, sandstorm
pearl, contrast, air

etc.

The digital taste far surpasses/ the human eye
blink. The snap of the shutter, muted (on mute mode)
adjust the parameters with an index finger
                                          (the delicate task)

my heart was never ashen
i keep my internal organs red

"i want-"
metal instead of flesh.
titanium bones and knee joints.
thoughts uploaded to the cloud.

in my veins,
instead of red blood cells,
make it 1s and 0s that run
so i can process, happiness, faster

i do not need
to see another ******* sunset
with my human, myopic eyes

learn your lessons from the cumaean sibyl
ask your questions wisely

chew/swallow/eat/consume
hands pressed together at the end
in gratitude (in chants&applause&tears)
Deafened by the silence

words and ideas that once maintained me
(along with my soul) rest now in my internal organs.
The gall. The stomach. The large and small intestine

You cannot force myself to cut open and reveal
but
(I would when I must and I will)

i suppose
i could sleep
a bit earlier

but is it the night
that draws words forth?

out of the darkness
meanings form
into shapes scribbled

down, the page

my clouded brain sings in morse code

lethargy covers me
like a mat

before i close my eyes
i think, am thinking
that i have done no wrong,
      i only     have
self-resentment above/ average levels


(uh)
ringing in my ears
like catching alien
radio waves from the
slimy depths of the
u ni ve r se

sleep paralyzes the limbs, a
numbness like sipping
hemlock juice, the after effect

here’s the rehearsal for the final

nighttime, daily, repertoire practice
(nothing special)

i hand in
my consciousness
they confiscate my thoughts

1.
the only bond i have
  and can trust, is emotional
tears validate
my truthfulness

as if my heart is ripped out of my chest
this is my proof
that i am one with you

but they got to me far
    far before this
and i cut my own tongue
with an updated
blade


2.
or it could be painless
only despair like a gray overcast sky
before the storm

despair is overused to the point
it loses its power
but each time we utter it
feeling its gravity
it is renewed once more

the curse of our times

is it not sad that
we mean what we say

3.
i get used to talking
in circles
in riddles
through
incorrect
     metaphors

it’s not a stylistic choice but in my blood
the fear inflated gobbles me

before the flood

that’s how power works that’s how discipline
works it gets you from within
and i can’t win

4.
if sincerity means anything,
it’s this: i do not know if i act
out of duty justice or a love for
romanticism, but i know i keep
silent out of habitual fear and that
keeps me from action in all forms
it’s silly but this is a small
personal resistance made with
words and my own fractured
thoughts

i am scared of blood and bullets

see, machines may grind your hopes and dreams
but we are all loaded guns waiting before any call sends us running
i hate the differentiation, but then for now there
is you and me, do I see a ghost or a memory
i try blinking away the mist, the myth,
but tears are falling and i can no longer see in clear,
unblurred vision. you can no longer see with your cold dead eyes and i
have a million questions i want to ask you
under candlelight

i want you, fully fleshed out
     (reconstructed, annually)
for them to see you / in the flesh

complex, that it brings forth
the exhaustion of words

heavy, for lives are heavy,
                 chest-crushingly
     heavy (and my heart cries out,
            bullet-pierced, past distances,
                 to a younger/ age)

the act of reduction
(an elimination)
onto smooth surfaces and shiny layers

is just criminal

Imagine darkness liquefied.
Imagine rain. The drip-drop
the splatter of disintegrated-drops
(the plit and platter) on concrete.
the fat blobs of water whizzing through the air
Accelerating, a sob stifled

Imagine that, and kitties and puppies with soft tummies
tumbling from the overcast sky in metaphorical circles
(Don't imagine their demise- Imagine instead,
the taste of mud and scent of grass
permeating the misted air)
Then the unpleasant chill, the muddied boots,
clothes that cling&uncling to the skin/ as you run.

(this is sorrow condensed) the rain in the stomach
collects into puddles (at the bottom pit)
They say (they say) not to stare into the abyss
but puddles are only water accumulated
and gazing in, I see not a pillar
for tears are harmless, sodium chloride

But it's your choice, whether to step
inside and ****
the mirror image

You'll forget the taste of the sun
when night comes. And the night
will come as a thin veil of darkness
thrown over an unlit room.
Careful not to trip over these
orange globes. You regret to say
that sugar is no longer a necessity
to induce happiness, but a threat
that intoxicates. Missing the warmth,
you unpeeled one, swallowing in slices
the shine of the sun. They sit silent,
the tangerines scattered on the floor,
still, unmoving, cold to the touch
waiting to hear the remains of your story

Ink bleeds out of the tip of the pen, over
my heart's surface, and if words are sharp enough
it scratches. But this motion will come to cease
one day, same as this current (subcritical) flow
The hand that does not reach out for an utensil
to record and create, can only hang limp and empty
on the sides. Palms that hold air, but cannot curl
up into fists.

Self-censored tongue-tie, blind eyes
Sorrow coupled with fatigue, wearing
the body of flesh down to bone.
stripped bare, and with fragile hands,
when anger orders its destructive demands
I obey, gritting crooked teeth
Throwing punches at my own shadows

I cannot digest.
I consume the mandatory text, sometimes
spoonful, sometimes in chunks
my daily verbal diet.
But my swallows remain shallow, and my mind
works not as a sponge,
but a sieve that pours.
Inefficiency saturated.
Passing seconds of a shortening shelf-life
tick-tick-ticking, a hardwired bomb handed down
A worn dream that cages young minds
(the myth)
But my young mind dreams, of my judgement
Hardening up with every word they feed me,
I want to sum up human history, to know, to see
(Knowing it to be a luxury)

(Yet the sharpness of wit
is too fine an accessory to fit
on a body that aches, that creaks on sprint runs
that overflows with bruised sentiments and salt)
And yet,

7 am light, flowing past curtains,
Turning every dustmote suspended in thick, warm, indoor air
Into imploding stars.
Heavy-lidded dreams disrupted. Quiet.
They hide away, able-footed, into the soft crevices of the unconsciousness.
Turn to the other
Unoccupied side

Then 8. Tears dry into flakes.
A crumpled morning beneath a crumpled blanket nursing a crumpled soul.
De-crease your bad energy,
Control it, don’t let it get
The best of you. Boo-hoo.
Get dressed, clean, the daily routine, you know the drill.
Go.

With a push she sits up,
The pain inside her stomach hardens into diamonds. Her gaze
Travels through air, through space, through the window, glass, through
Millions of soundless, weightless miles

She turns to look at the sun.

i will write a song. Now. Here.
i will write of the static air
that expands between us.
Of the barbed wires, traps,
unintended smirks, intended silences,
of the things ( i could never speak to you)
i swallowed down without a sound like bitter medicine
(that done me no good. The muddy intentions
only accumulated in my stomach.)
(And refused to materialize.)

i will write a song and riddle it with riddles
Cover up my weaknesses with covert giggles
Shut tight my eyes and wait for the sound
Your declaration! The thud of the guillotine
That drives this to a clean cut end
( i could never speak to you)

read me a poem and I'll bleed a tempo
out for you. I'll dye red the page (leaving no margins)

words will skip-skip-skip on the tip
                                    of my tongue,
a foreign one.

I sing the notes wrong but the sounds are lovely still.
(be a gentlemen and don't blow my cover)

I never was good with words and words are never good
they are never accurate, ever stable,
you stab it with meanings till you **** it