yummy.
burned me with a stick today,
smelled like smoky ribs
on a lovely sunday morning pan.

the pain on the pan
sizzled the other pain away.
well done,
as I fancy the most.

the burden on my shoulders
carries me aweigh
charcoaled molding hookers
rotting in the sea

ridding brace from the eldest
granting my last reprieve
and on behalf of myself
let me try to sleep

I won't rise from the dead anymore
for you did not discern me
and all my highnesses are expelled in the blue
so maybe one day they will understand

gallery of
the grievers
ween afar
in plane
to propel
the dance
yet triple
in wings
that triage
Mekong dry-cleaner
those drastic
maitres'd the
guns of
Queen Village
noise plays
guitar in
Market Square

red lips,
high heels,
a few bits
of love feels
like a burning paper —
slowly consuming me
out of uncertainty.

I catch a star in my palm, and
it brightens my dark thoughts

God is far from me tonight,
so I pray to the moon

The midday sun burns me
like my mother’s touch

I am reminded
by my cracked lips,
And the way my mouth
tastes like mouth,
How hot it is in here.
That,
left to my own devices,
I might just burn myself up.

I am reminded
by dragon breaths
Blowing softly
on my forehead
How warm you are out there
That,
left to my own devices,
I could bake myself into all that glow.

And never know
Why I'm still so cold.

The Gloaming

The flames licked my feet,
I smiled.
The tickle was fleeting, the burn for awhile;
the memory lasts longest,
still here to this day,
long after the scars have faded away.
In the gloaming thereafter
I’ve traveled alone,
avoiding the fire and ash that it's sown.
Though I once played with flames,
though once I was hurt,
still the nip of the night bears no pretense of comfort.

Posthumously Famous.

That is definitely the name
Of my book.
If not that, a title for this poem.
No, the first line.
It’s untitled.
I won’t restrict myself.
I won’t be led astray.

Poets are just looking for an outlet.
Poets are in anguish.
Poets are on fire.

Let us burn.
Let us burn in agony.
Do not peek your head over,
Dear reader.
You have an obligation.
Work, kids, bills.
Don’t think of us.
We are burning in agony, in fire,
And we do not wither away.
We cannot escape that easily.