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touka Apr 2020
under a wolf's moon
all the debt that you incur
under a wolf's moon
where the air eats at his fur

his expiry
like lily and ragweed

how much more effective death seems,
in the dark

where there goes a howling
comes more, goes two, goes three -

and even sleep is a poor divider;
a straw between the fire and he

I watch,
and my heart goes, so unfettered
so that even homer nods
clinging to red-letters
with my last little finger
'til he's gone
and isn't it a very strange pour
that the water crawls upward,
back
to lick the lip of the cap,
once more
touka Nov 2018
I̫ ̰̻̥̯̰̖̰w̖̤̗̞a̮͚͚̜̹͓n̪͙ͅt̤̭ ̳͍̝͍̰m͓̠y̗ ̯̭̝͎̱̲d͎̼̙̺a̭͈ṳ̺g̦͕͙̠h̲̫̯̩̱t̗͉͚͚̲e̺͔̤̮r̪̲̟̱̭ ͔ba͎c̯k͉̗͖
̭̠̣͍
̜I̗̜ ̰̼̳̥̻̙̹w̳͕̞͚̭̠a̟̠͍̲̦̜̝n̯͖̹̙̦̝̝t͚̙̙ ̦͎͈h͈e̜͚r̯̰͇̦̝,̠̖̞
̪̖̼͈s̫̜he͖ ̣̹w̥a̘̱̯̯s̗ͅ ̤̯͇̖ṣ̩we̱̭̦̭̜̩ͅe̟̩̳͙̝ͅt̪ ̖͇̱̳̪a̲͕̝͈n̠̺̲̬ͅd͚͕̫̪̘̳͇
̞͎͓̣͚̝͚ ̮̜̖ ̩̦̹̞̫̼͈ ̻̠̮̠ ̜̠̼̹͍͍͕k̰͖i̜n͇d̖̦
̥̟̼͇̮ḁ͖̤͓͇͖ͅn̳͉̱̹͕̰̗d̪̻̮̰
͇̜͚̜̮͓̥ ̜͈̭̘͔ ̞n͉͙o͕͔̦͈t̙̯̻̭̱̝ ͖͓̙l̮̳̣͙̞̙i͉͖̱͍͚̥̠ke̖ ̗̩͎̤̪y͖͇̼̯ou̗̬
͖̙̱͓̯̰I̹̺̗̻̼̲̫ ͕͕w̰̳̥̜a͚̯n̩t ̩̺̥͖̤̘h͖͉͖e̖̳͈͙͕̬r̝͓͖ ͇̻̱̖̝b̩a͔̻͇ck̺


I'll send a missive
a parcel, haplessly packaged
by these bumbling, cloddy digits

fill it with frailties
objet d'art of mine
my careful reminiscence

de anima
I will slice
like slivers of gold

pour in my intellect
places, names, things, phrases
I was sure I would forget

I'll synopsize my soul

throw it in a box,
carted off and off

until I'm set on the doorstep
an ogle and a gaze-in
at my what and whatnot

no return address
touka Oct 2021
little footsteps, falling fast
my heart grieves in turn, God

my nerves are shot

threading
through the seats
of that little white chapel

sewing
sinew and bone;
thread alone, thread alone

so he sticks a hand
into the border fires
wets the fray of running wires

with his tongue

swinging, spirit
spirit of inquiry –
then onto his knees
in that little white chapel

stopped as a pendulum

swung onto the asphault
arrested, there, in time

God,

have mercy

grace even a hair—

where is my son?
he asks

dead in the back
of a Mayberry ambulance
stopped as a pendulum
where did you wander to,
where did you come from

God

there,

staring

cries him a tear of Pentecost

where his breath tarries
til' he wakes with a start

where is my son?
think love comes with little cost

little footsteps, falling fast
sleeping like a dead leaf

I make sure he's still breathing

a breath in, a breath out

that licks the flame, makes it weak
so I sleep with eyes as wide as saucers
in fear the candle might be brief
come in, my little selfishness—

don't take him away from me‎‎      ‎
so further go these little foxes
little footsteps, falling fast
to tear and spoil up the vine

a breath in, a breath out

smoking this wet cigarette
threading
through the seats
of that little white chapel

a breath in, a breath
touka Apr 2018
with a broken jaw
and a broken spine

he tries to tame the gnawing
unhinged, colubrine

he claws for claret, cherry blood
sloughs his futile, far loves
sinks his teeth into the silt mud

swiping bugs from widows web-spin
perhaps I'd never reach my anthesis
perhaps I'd never shed my dead skin

like he crawls along the leaves
all the rest crawls from his sleep
in late hours
he thinks of me
"I've always had a broken spine."
hungry, hungry, hungry
touka Apr 2018
the ticking
of my orrery
douse the sun
its rise and clutch
exscind what skin it might have touched

like clockwork,
I whisper

like clockwork
as Jupiter bumps the earth
the orrery whispers in its corner

like clockwork, ticking

my soul's in the city
somewhere,
patiently sitting

I bite my tongue
hold my breath
let the anger fill my lungs instead
like anodyne inside my chest

a sea of concrete
somewhere,
singing, seeking

conjuring
and conjuring
but the moon wakes to sleep
and not much else
creeps
between the sun and the hour hand

surely

I'm buried
in the barathrum
locusts, wild honey
where the clove
is over-running

somewhere,
long removed from me
a wraith, a ghost
above the wings
my soul sits
and sings
and sleeps

like clockwork
I wait for its return
a heartless husk in the ground
the ticking
as my orrery sounds
days too deep, crows or keys
i
touka Sep 2015
i
burn cold;

her vitriol, a swarm;

overwhelming, the sting

of such ice --

december plume,

risen from chasms

the air, choked with fire;

the stench

of cerulean flame

her piercing smatter; ******, igneous, the shrieks

and the ring of such sound

settled in her ears.
touka Jun 2018
the wind is drunk on its liquor

a subtle slurring

lilies stir on the lilt of its voice

as harsh a requitement
again, I find no respite

as lithe as the life
in those ever-rearing gold rows of wheat

mistral born, on the rise
like prying eyes

I am thrown
into some tumult,
where some enemy rages on
shakes his staff against the cold

where the lighter chaff is tossed
toward the salt that laps the sand
on the sweet breath of its benthos

I am withering
but the wind blows on

whiles along –
drones its tepid mourning song
springs the dew
from its calloused palms

I am thrown
as sure of war
as trees will shed and flourish
and shed and flourish
in seasons to and fro'
freshly disowned
by the earth and its shoulder

a carapace of autumn's
exhumed again
it seems so easy for trouble to find me
touka Sep 2021
He was asking for an accident

And he had asked for it so long

It was quiet conspicuity
It was a whisper of a song
And whether mid-day,
night, or morning

I could have sworn that it had gone

"Let me in, let me in"

I could have sworn that it had gone

"Let it out, let it out"

I could have sworn that it had gone

"Pick it up, put it down,"

It was frightened ambiguity
Dandelioning along
It was frozen in the postal-state
It was a letter never drawn

Tremors halving contiguity
Whatever I'd like, whatever I'd like

Tomorrow towards the turnpike's tongue

It was quiet, but I knew it wasn't right
I can hear a laugh along the highway line
I could hear the winding in the tunnel all this time
I could hear the murmur, but I still called it a whine
touka May 2015
subtle, shallow breath spread;
there, the cold and sombre fall, giving weary heart rest.

but how it did fester under his tongue; how his regret did cry in such a sepulchre throat.

but still, did the sea pull. still, did her lips part to make air, and let her body scream life.

still, did leaves grow, and still did they fall.

still, was there living, even in a woman's grief.
touka Jul 2021
shut your mouth

out from the rostrum
in my head

raking ***** claws down
the big open wound
that the mind has become

no more
makeshift threshing floor

the stopgap
you have made man's errand

the erring, wandering star
swollen bigger than its dark, devolving home

subterfuging
refuge
for me

a notch in the gold
a gap in the fire
a pause in the plaudit

liar
liar
liar
liar

you won't make a meal of me

I know your name

it's

liar
liar
liar
liar
1 Peter 5:8
Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.
touka Sep 2015
his stomach swelled, while his breath sped
from his mouth, sounds like city transport
freight train lungs
and mirror's weight,
and worth in love
body, decrepit
his eyes dilated under pale hospital light
his lungs, burning
lay stale and frigid; a hospital bed's height.
"we began wanting to be embraced
became unable to walk alone"
touka Dec 2018
‍  ‍    ‍    ‍    ‍    ‍
the sea-tide sprays

like his thoughts

the wood splinters

gives way to gavel



the city emerges;

a beacon before me

strip malls and shops

adorned with their little bells;

bedizened with lights

every corner, every crease

here, in winter
I see



the ice melts

with his mind, in its time

his blood runs thick

as the skin it sits under



this heat will scorn whatever callous I sport,

so

the sun will burn whatever grudge off of me,

so


if you come home...
touka Dec 2015
winter;
wrapped in its solstice, and fallen leaves

sleep

arctic;
melting into trees
feral beast amongst forest

its last ears to somber reprise,
and eyes to the death in the land.
nothing can come back.
touka Oct 2014
Once vibrant were my blooms --
all reaching, and brushing ground, close to earth and unbound.
But now humbled; death and it's fallout, aching only for his sound.
touka Jan 2016
caught, alone, in austere stream
how I sink to sleep, and wake to float
seeking hands from passing boats
and all the while pray
with this maelstrom's theme
fingertips bleed, and scream
it is constant
to stay afloat
it is constant
I am choked,
by undertow
fight to breathe
i never learned how to swim.
touka Dec 2017
the subsets of his haunts
organized and packed away
tugged and pulled and pushed
like hefty parcels and
the tension in his fingertips
like the prickle and pop
of pins under and over and in his skin

and the subtle swell of dread
swirling in his stomach
from a nightmare he had the other night
the happenings in which he couldn't quite remember
but it bothered him more that he couldn't
perhaps if he could just remember
it would clue him in to the catalyst of the day
if his subconscious had predictive powers, that was.
but he felt like something not good was going to happen
and whenever he had that feeling–which was, ad nauseum–something not good usually, eventually transpired
and that was enough to let him know

like something trembling the equilibrium
in the labyrinth behind your ears
to pull him like his hefty parcels
left and right, side to side
the feeling would tug on him about his day
but he wouldn't change its course
"december's sweating, don't sweat it all
I'll dance with the dog paws or dance with the hogs"
touka Sep 2020
I saw them overhead
each one, rushing in
like the sea meets the sand

oh, God
I saw them overhead


I took her by the hand

then by the hair

then by the leg

I had a reason

and whingers cry on television

found her dead in pieces

but I had a reason
touka Jan 2018
cold,

I will my eyes to focus
reprimand my dark surroundings
and the many failing lights that sit
just a few yards away
blurry, blue dots
that jut out from the soil
of my neighbors yard
some decoration, I suppose

wet,

I hear the past, present and future collide with a crash
with a few strong voices
who bargain for nothing more than an insight
into each others inevitability

cold,

light flickers back on behind me
and I could kiss it hello
potent and poignant,
I'm so glad you are breathing
maybe that's a little forward, but it's more than power
I still struggle to focus my sight
maybe my ears, however
quiet still could not fall if it had untied shoes

wet, and so cold it's become dull

the ground is malleable, mud and muck sloshing around my pathway
my feet toss the puddles of winter water up and around my ankles
it soaks into my socks
sends a chill that stalks the length of my spine

wet and cold

I meander through the murk, biding it away
I jump onto the sleek black surface, staving off the frigid pains
and lay my head down to hide from sight

my vision is full of black holes

it's lovely, the rain
but not when its best accompaniment is the long silhouette of the house you'd escaped
who would I tell
a few foggy figures latch onto my regard

cells collapse in on their own

my face grows warm and I feel my features contort
a sad scowl appropriate for the situation at hand
tears roar past the dam I'd crafted
but it was dark, no one would see
I was hiding under nightfall
which might sound cool if I didn't mean I was laying on top of an old car crying at 5 in the morning

reborn starving and unconsoled

I still hear a few voices, then a few footsteps that quicken
a pace, a parse, a prying for more
and then a collective quiet
I stiffen, stifle my woes

the bite and the cry as it corrodes the hull

numb creeps in around my skin
especially my feet, the extent of the cold finally settling in
but I wasn't ready

the bigger the bang, the brighter the star

I have a conversation with myself in my head
and not to come off loony
but there are a few things that shouldn't have been said by either parties involved
if you catch my drift

theory tugs at the strings in my heart

a soft gust of January wind strokes the bare skin of my legs
I wonder
I wonder if I could stop if I were to start
and so I wonder and wonder
but it seems the answer isn't quite so mysterious

paradigms practice their weight in the void

I bet an imaginary amount of some imaginary currency
to myself, of course
that if I wasn't able to before, I definitely won't be able to sleep now

the dance of matter and its taunting toy

I hear my name called, footsteps shuffling, offering their warn
a somewhat concerned voice from beyond the beyond
the front door, I mean
out of sight, I freeze, my mouth stuffed full of cotton
half hoping they'll forget I exist for a few
so I can try to compose myself

with the space around it as it threatens tall

however well I could compose myself at this point, anyway
I know I'll be found
I don't want to speak, I'm not sure if I could
when these things happened, my mouth tended to malfunction as much as my spine
so I'd bite my tongue and stand shrinking
my muscles curling into a shaken stir

saturn sleeps, its uninhabitable crawl

a warm blanket, I don't remember the color
I'm brought inside and laid down
and I avoid the hot remnants of some loud, leering summer
the air is thick with it

its air stings my skin, and I hear a song
  ‍    ‍
so this is the weirdest, longest and most intimate poem I've ever done. It also kind of deviates from my usual style
(the italics are a bit glitched out BC of hellopoetry so sorry for that)
touka Jun 2018
weak-kneed,
heavy-eyed,
stumbling

I push through the thicket
to the patch of land
where the air is thick
with burnt pine and turmeric
to where the moon sets
spry on the water

I take my legs
and offer them to the strait
my plunge
into the euripus

what use are they
if not to walk
to the nape of hope's neck?

well, then
it is this
I am whelmed
carried off by the cold swell
of adam's ale

then, somewhere
along the river
and its rushing stupor

I hear singing
a voice that rings like clinkstone
and the ecclesiast begins to pull me
a quiet accompaniment
careful quiet, in the night –
such is thievery

subtle, without much grief
take me

for whatever gold I am
whatever glimmer that I could give
burnished of whatever sin
touka Nov 2015
light slides
fast travel
through vacant temples
the cracks and corners
and creases in halls
and the pastor's verses
to despondent ears
and crumbling walls
"all the rows in the Pastor's church, full of empty sighs and wine"
touka Sep 2016
bed sheets in disarray
in the shadow of the morning bustle
in the rust of the cog
and the rustle, the shaking
the movement of the machine
body rising
blood warm with theine
touka Aug 2020
such high miles from his son
with that head of sawed off strawberry blonde

still, you'll dance in empty places
that sarabande til you sweat

nothing between you and the better air
but those feet will have to move
Psalm 40:2
"And he heard my prayers, and brought me out of the pit of misery and the mire of dregs. And he set my feet upon a rock, and directed my steps."
touka Jul 2020
knew fullness and warmth
like midnight comes, remember
spring's first bloom wanders
touka May 2017
an ode to a dance of symbols
to the tangle of the esoterist's threads
and a cacophony of voices bumping heads
as they bustle under the table
and knock the loosened legs
to fall south side to the dregs
wine whiter than the wiser's robes
spills and spreads like soft seafoam
touka Sep 2015
atrophy,
sweet heart

tissue, waste and eat

illness;

the taste

call out, body

screaming;

long for precipice

and echo into abyss

cling to low lands

keep still,
sweet heart

sweet beat
and flooring speak
run, lover
touka Dec 2019
and there she is

widows-thrill
or devil's backbone,
some sort of specimen
hog-tied to the sediment

combs her hand
with nails bit past the quick
through her hair
til she thinks there's not one incongruent strand

dragging her feet
down the primrose path
off on the hard way into heaven

I know I'm good for something
I just haven't found it yet
touka Jul 2020
what if a bomb drops
comes whistling
waging, burning, busting

and everything gets blown away

before you can peek your head
through that chipped white door –
turn that dumb, stuck ****
come home to me
and call me your wife?

I don't think about it

*****'s got the window open
letting her arm get soaked
with each bomb, fat raindrop
expecting to hit Sandy Ridge Road
but rolls down the skin
of her idle hand instead

her eyes are stuck outside
looking at anything but him,

the cigarette occupying his lips
the screaming, mountain-dew-yellow of his shirt

wondering where she and he and they and them
and whoever will go after this

I don't think about it

me after you, you after I
anything in-between
if we come falling
like big bombs of raindrops

scatter into feathers
like those sparrows sold two farthings

God says He sees
tell me not to worry

tell me not to think about it
it doesn't really matter
you know what's real
burning on your fingers
you know how to feel

I've been slipping lately
oh, I've been slipping lately
touka Oct 2020
I want so much,
I could do so much,
but I just keep tearing myself apart

slam my head on the plate
rest my neck in the national razor
wait for the hand to strike,
gavel to give way

hoist myself
onto the rain-wet
splintering edged wood
of the lucarne
let the air break my fall,
close my eyes until I'm gone


but I am still here


going on


and on


and on


Good, gracious God
shut my mouth and send me off to something better
ever just get sick of being yourself because you're incompetent????? just me??? thanks
x
also i hadnt thought about it until today, but just in case anyone thinks im a murderer after the last poem i posted just know that i am not. but also, you're next
touka Oct 2019
if there is a will
there is a was -

and if there is one of those,
there is a still,

and so they'll go wherever they will, now won't they?

but
here on Buridan's bridge
I've been standing so long
I've grown into it

like a lone flake of verdigris

here on Buridan's bridge
I've been standing so long

the moths have been eating my clothes

and even though I can crane my head and see the sky—which is endless and going to swallow me up if I'm here even a second longer—and I can let my head fall and see my feet—planted on the bridge above the sea that is the sky's tongue ready to lap me—east is west and down is up and

I don't know much of anything I used to
touka Jan 2017
i've never known such a bitter, offensive taste
an assault on the senses
an incursion on the tongue
as when your name was in my mouth
i found it hard to hold a grudge before you.
touka Jan 2018
sleep hangs in the air over my head

until it bolts and breaks the steep drop
from the window down to the city below

where light swarms around the sprawl
brilliant enough to cut through the thick cover of night that settles over it at this time

argus eyes Newark as it refuses rest
turns up its nose at the inclination
struggles under the spread and smother of last phase
pearls its flare as a periapt

and loudens its whirs and sighs
from public transit and its smoking tires
as halogen headlights bleed well through highway treelines

so I'll stave off another tryst with sleep
whatever romance tossed to Jersey's smog-laden wind
city slickers
touka Apr 2017
how easy
to wake freezing
with this bad taste
scrub it out
raw, with mint in my mouth
but it still rests cold in the back of my throat
sour and unknown
like discomfort
and anxiousness,
and ennui, and asphalt
and home
touka May 2019
my lips aren't locked so tight,
I think

and then there my tongue halts

thumbs pressed into porcelain
I only hope to leave an impression;

chock a stick in one cog
of his endlessly certain thought

he will not be wrong -
even when he has been caught

if God himself sent a whisper on my behalf
a whit of my whimpering in the night
those running thoughts might yet drown it out

a quirk of the working mind

time seems of the essence
I have to consider that he'll forget

I dig my nails in
feel them ripping from the bed

I only hope to leave a dent

but it was an imperceptible sin
a shared blemish on agnate skin

though mine grows inward
and outward and on -
like wild root,
shooting off in all sorts of directions

for him, a second obliterates
but I sleep and wake to it

my lips are loosening,
I think

only to take in breath

a forced inhale
the air of his absence
of cognizance

seems emptier
a notch in the shutters
a gap in the curtain
I peek in and see nothing

distinctly, I feel it isn't me who is looking
touka Oct 2021
that's just how it works

It hurts, and you get away with it
and my heart will keep breaking for you
in the night
in the morning
over and over again

and I'll smell a phantom smell of the balm of your breath
on my very own
my tragedy, I suppose

and I'll miss it

I will miss the evil that I laid down to sleep with,
the impenitent sinner that I
never went too long without locking hands with;
the behemothing horror in the strength of his

not the blameless kind of might,
not for honor, not for virtue;
the kind of strength you can only misuse

and even so, I'll thread through those buried-in-weight benches,
through cold jurers, kooks, and voles

let my little voice sound from the stand in the tribunal -
- and I'm not sure what will happen, but
when it does, I'm sure you'll know

that's just how it works

It hurts, and you get away with it

and they seem to want to watch me
while I watch you do it all

all of the things you'll say - no words to me,
just a momentary gaze my way

so the imagination can run wild
and take a good clawed hold of me for the next month and a mile

and my heart will keep breaking, and
because I'll want to get closer,
I'll dovetail my hands

and I'll bleed all my noise
right there on the stand
and it will show in my voice
that I'm blind to the dance
a mote in the sun; a thing in the sand

I still hope that they'll see you

as clawed as you are,
the odd provocant you are,
stimulated by commotion

but the resistless tendency
is as good as a gun

the pause

the balm of your breath
the ghost of a second where I cry,
cornered,
and you lunge

so I'll see a phantom smile
in the way you snarl at me

and my heart will keep breaking for you
in the night
in the morning
over and over again

that's just how it works
and you get away with it

don't you?

will you get away with it, again?

threading,
like through the seats
of that little white chapel

those buried-in-weight benches
of cold jurers,
kooks,
and voles

I'm not sure what will happen, but
when it does, I'm sure you'll know
touka Oct 2015
her eyes, lit like candles

now a distant phosphorescence

a poignant tug, her shade

but a smile of such weight

and warm, radiant presence

firmly we cling

to such small hands

and of bigger things would her soft, sweet voice sing.
I love you.
off
touka Oct 2017
off
an anticipation hit me
in dim lit periphery
a darker sky swathed out
over a sea
set off so tender
stroking the reef
white light hung so low
a wash of pale and navy
poured onto lush green
as he leaned in to kiss me

if the ******* could be so easy
if we were caught in such a dreamy scene
carried ashore by the cling
of his hands wandering
sailing with the sting
and like the hacking and the coughing
when out of lungs came pouring
every unsaid thing
sand soaking up the drippings


I was perched on the cliff side
sent to stoke some man's eye
took the body but not the mind
wracking the shell I sleep inside
to test the careen on different tides
air under feet as the moon hung high
bargained for a swift crack on the collide
touka Dec 2022
I am fixed
to the walls of this house

so tightly joined to it,
this bed
through sinew and bone

thread, thread, thread

another plait into me

the night, the breed she is
with that ****** needle
and thread, thread, thread

knows I can’t stand within it
the vignette
the solitude

the white coats,
the men of the word
those in the mire of the clay
all prescribing the same thing

a hit of perseverance

“Oh, okay,”

“oh, okay,”

“oh, okay.”

I lick, lap at
the slow drip
so tightly fixed to where I always have been

don’t come in,
don’t go out

“I’m sorry,”

in the pooling of spit
one hand in the *****
reaching into the pit

the *******
night
I don’t say in vain

“Okay,”
“Okay,”
“Okay,”

she waits
loosens my thread
slips those little tethers
so much good slack

I run
take my hit of perseverance
I burn
burn, burn, burn
right up in the fire of day

she waits for the ash

the sun rises and sets
on the same thing, always

always
always
always

they don’t understand
those free feet, walking the narrows
I watch them all go
no wince, no limp

no thread, no spit

the way that it seems,
from my portion of shadow,

“Oh, okay,”

so easy
touka Jan 2018
struck me like sweet incense
of some storm of stardust
and by my doing, of old copper coins
the blood collected in his throat
the steely scent on his breath as it warped his voice
sent cold shrapnel through my tendons
I slipped and sank into the noise

I might miss having my heel stepped on
achilles exposed for far too long
sans the snake to snap at it
sans the sickle to scythe its hit
sans orpheus to ink an ode
sing it until his breathing slows

sing until his breathing slows
*tw* the flesh behind flayed pale skin, sprouting and spindling red, through and through, like sarcodes were made of him
touka Mar 2018
staid,
so sober
tossing pages
closed on clover
sank for a sennight

cream
and green
and white
and red
like spring cloudburst on her head
from stride
to sulk
to sleep
to cry
clutch, cradle and cast the die

******,
sleeping, sneaking sot
windswept, waifish
closed on clover kept to rot
fold for a fortnight

fix a thousand paper cranes
taking pains until it wanes

cream,
and green
and pallor,
plum
forswears all her working numbs
from sink
to sink
to cough
and cry
contemplates with vacant eyes
the stars above, where they reside
and when they dawn, their bright visage
where could the glimmer be
"but why are orion and the other stars rushing to leave the sky, and why does night contract its course?

why does bright day, presaged by the morning star,
lift its radiance more swiftly from the ocean waves?

am I wrong, or did weapons clash? I’m not – they clashed.
mars comes, giving the sign for war."
touka Oct 2015
"loose knitting"

intenerate her mind

her thinker, melted mush

burning, bright fluorescent

eyes dilated; rainbow surround

stinging like smoke

inhales like smoke

screen spitting fire; hurling towards her eyes

iris, rise like smoke
"just calm down and try not to think about it."
touka Jan 2018
operose, to open rose
slaves to pull its petals down
the time it takes to bloom them out
a senecan stoic to peter his prose
to hide under its sharp thorned nose
pops the top till the flower pouts
dust to dust on its soil mound
touka Oct 2017
as unlikely in love as

sand is not to toss under the wind

the southside is to sleep at night

stone is to soften against your head

as rain is to not be wet

but the stinging sensation
when you left
"the pain isn't real, just chemicals tellin' my brain how I ought to be"
touka Jan 2018
a hurdle to jump, she parsed
to pass through a season
and leap unsoiled through its shedding
a haunt of hemingway's
to whine against another want
oh!
as spring clamors for its own warmth
maybe needless, but i would ask
to spend whatever time
with faint regard of whatever time
i'll see this one out
touka Jul 2019
here and there

a crackle from the fire

an interruption in July's air

a forcible boom

where I wince until it lessens


but I smile, teeth persimmon orange

like those smoldering flecks of wildflower

that then fail their color, dwindle to the dirt


I picture my ivories falling out of my mouth in the same way

grey and withered


I rise, combust and fall

with these wild roman candles


like cassiopeia


I gaze in her general direction


dragged into the night by the hem of her peplum


I don't care to make out her shape

nor the throne she's tied to

by rope or by chain


her parable pressed into the scaffolding of the sky


a warning; an imposition
like sky-lit lithium
and its retinal imprint


I smile, teeth persimmon orange

turn my face

perception fails in such ways;
in these bold, bright, burning crossettes




I see figures






an arm extends
I̵̧̧̢̡̢̧̢̢̨̡̡̧̛͕̘̪̗̳͍͍̼̝̩̖̠̗̹̭͖̘̘̖̪̱̩̬̺̖̹͎͕̖͍̬̼̜͍̝͚̝̺̙̤̬̪̭̹̙͍͇͍̜͎͎̦͈̪̯̪̱̩̤̦͖̻̞̻̺͖̪͕̠̟̰͈̥̦̪͙͕̖͉͕̖̣̬̬͓̪̜̝͕͇̩̻̝̯̖̳̠͕͕̜̦͉͔̲̯̹͍̙̭̮̟̱̲͚͚̠̹͕̙͔̮͔̞͛͊̅̅̆̍̓̋͗͌̃͒̒͌͊̀̓̽̈́̒̇̋̉̓̕͜͜͜͝͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ ̷̨̧̡̧̢̢̨̧̡̢̡̨̨̨̡̨̢̧̨̡̡̛̛̛͎̬̻̮̤͇͙͔̤̜͚̞̞̫̠̠̗̭̱͔̜̘͎͔͍͍͈̤̳̠͎̞̘͕̳̭̹̼̬̬̗̖͎͉̠̙̘̦̜̻̣̭͇̙̱͇͇̣̲̹͕̜͔͍͔̪̜̭͖̗̩̺͚̝̗̼̭̫͈̦̜̝̖̲̲̲̝͚̯͖̝̲͇̣͎͇̜̗̩̠͚̰̳̣̗̙̺̺̗̹̠̙̘̘̭̗͖̺̙͎̭̺̣̞͉̤̠̻̲̳̖͇̪̯͚͍̥̘͖̲̼̳͖͇̻̬̬͖̩̭̣̯͎͓̤͎̞͚̱̯͉͇͖̠̣͓̲͍͉́͒̓͗̈́͐̾͗̇̽̀̎̃̓̈́̊̈̆̓͊́͗͐̋͛̿͒̾̑̌̽͂̔͂̄͗̂͐̿̂͆́̍̊̔̎̈́̊̔̀̈̇̇̈̃̐͛̄̽̈̎̊͗̈́͒̅̈́͋͐̑͊̿͐̅̓̀̀͆̇̇͂͌̓͐͌͌͐͌͂͌̀͆̅̌͑͊͗́̀͘̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅf̸̢̢̧̡̢̧̢̨̡̨̧̧̡̧̨̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̬͚̥̯͎̘̹̫̥̹̥̟͇̘̱͇̱͙̩̰͉͔͖͕͉͓̣̲̲͙͉̯͕̦̤͖̮̼͖̺̮͎̞͈͈̗̦͕̪̮̮̦͕̦̜̭͚͎̙͓͉̗̤̱̼͇̯̩̼̫͓̠̝̱̳̗͈̫̲͉͎̩̟̼͓̘̳̼̭͙̣͔̹͇̰̤͙̻͈̖̙͕̯̠̪̲͔̹̩̬̻̖̬͕̗͉̯͙͔͍̪̳̥͇͖̗̙͖͉̰͇̻̝͙̱̱̯̀̆̈́͋̎͂̂̆̒̽̑̆͂̊̒͌̔͒̈́͑̓̇̆̈́̎̇̐͆̀͂̌̉͒́̄́͋́͊̔͊̉̈́́͌̄̋̿̔̀͒́̈̒͑̾͂͑̋̈́̀̈͂̄̑̑͂̿̀̎̑̂̓̏̎̒̇̑̍͑̄̾͂̿̍̉̇͗̊͐̌̏̆̌̊̾̂͋̌́͋̇̉̂̑͊̓̓̇́̊̒͌̑̈́̈́̍̈́̿̅̐͆̆̎̂̉̉́̎̎̈̾̿̉̅͐͛̀̎̏͌̈́̏͑̔͗̋̀̑̾̾́̃͗̐̀̑̊̏͌̈́̄̕̚͘̕͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅi̷̢̡̨̢̧̛̱̘̬̝̬̺̱̯͎̮̘͇̹̜̱̗̱͇̞͓̝̘̻̥̟̭͓̼͉̳̭̪̩̓̉͋͛̌͛̾͆̽͌̓̈̒͒̓̏̃̍̔̌̆̄́̿̅͂́́̓̏̅͗̾̎̾̄̑̈́̾͂̆̆̀̒̍͆̽̃͂́̈́̍̈́̇̓͋̕͜͠͝ͅn̷̡̢̡̧̛̖̥̲͈̤͉̙̣̮͉̪̤̬̺͍̘̟̹͍̤̮͎̮̯̭̙͉̘̗̯̳̩̠̫̥͔͉̠̠̣͕̦̤͎̹̳̗̺̲̥̝̻͈̗̟̰̟̗͙̱̼̹̬̫̠͚̯͔̞̞̤̹̼̮͕̠̻̙̅̂̏̓̈̍̓̿̈̾͗̈̊̿́̈́̌͑͋̄̀̓̒͛̌͌͐̽͛̽̀̿͛̉̒̏͌̽̄̑͊̃͌̀̈́̿͆̆̓̆̈̓̓͐̀͂̈́́̃̈́̿̂͌̆̊́̈́̾̒̾̈́̊͒͊̉́̊̅̃̽͑̂̀͑̃̎̊̈͆̅͗̇̾̏͊̏̑͛̄̓̈͗̑͌̍̆̈́̉̈̔͑̿̈̑̐͑͗͂͒̾͌̓̉̎̈́̃̑͆̆͊̉́̐̿̑͘̕̕̕̕̕͘̚̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝ͅd̶̨̨̨̢̢̨̨̧̛̛̛̛̛̞̼̩͈̻̖̦̯̠͔̺͙͚̜̠̟̰̱̜̻̝̻͈͙͓̤̞͓͎̳̻͚̣̜̲̱̹̫̄͑̆͆͋͊̓̄̉̇̃̎̏̆̊̃̇̀̇̄͊͒̍͗͗̅̿̋̍̈́́͐̐̀̇̄̆̒̾̒͗̿̈́̎̓͋̐͂̈́̈́̈́̄͐͐̀̄̀̍̆̑̿̎̐͆͂̉̓̂̃́̉̉̍͗̐̇̐͆̒͒̇̽̄̒̐͊̾̎̅̈́̍̾̄̾͑̅̓̀̌̎̍̈́̓͗͆̀̆̒̈́̇̌̀̽́̾̐͌̑̉́̾̄̌͘͘̕͘̕̚͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ ̴̡̢̢̧̨̧̧̨̢̡̢̢̧̡̛̛̣͖̤͓̫̝͖͇͇͓̜̗̟͖͕̹̘͚̗̥̩͙̤̰̠̤̝̰̹̭̗̹͔͍̖̭͔̖̬̥̼̫̯̯̞̠̮̫̮̣͍͕̤͇̜̥̗̗̲̯̫̱͚͙̟̗̹̙̻̘̹̭̮̟̝̲͉̙͔̰͚̠͕̫̭͙̺̘̮͉̮͙̪͍̳͍͕̮̲̮͕̣̩̺̬̜̩̼̫̤̥͙̜͇͚̭̼̗̳̦̘͇̹̟͇̬͔̞̱̺̣̤͚̜̹̼̠̩̫̟̪̲̟̭̫͓̭̗̱̲̻̖̪̻͎̘̟̞̣̬̗̔̽̅͋̉̈́̈́̈̓̓̆̅͊͒̉̇͊͌̉͂̑̏̂̂͋̉͊̽͑͂͗̇̂́͋̎̉̈̅̊̀͑̈́̑̀͐̉̓̆̿̅̅̌̉̏̋̍̓̀͛̅̎̄̓̀̇̀̿̎̏̓͆̂̐͊͆̑͐͑̍̈̈́̒̌̀̀̕͘̕̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅa̵̧̨̧̛̛̞̘̼̗͎̱̪̯̺̳̰̝̤̼͕͎͎̻̭͔̜̮̫̜̞̭̤̖͔̰̝̳̼̪̭̘̠͉̮͇̹͔̻͈̺̹̠̰̭̳̻͈̭̱̺̣̤̘̥̘̦͈̤̫̘̺̟̮̬̼̫̯͍̞͛͂́́͒͋͊̃͆̈́̔̀̑̆́͒̒̐̉̿͋́̂̓͂̐̆̈́̈́̃̀̒̆͂͒̿̿̋́̽̍̓̑̿̈́͒̽̀̽̇̾̇̽̃̇͑̋́̈̋̇̉̽͋̐͛̿̄̈́̽̈̋͆̓̈́̏̓͛̂̉͐̾̃͑̆̄̽̏̑̂́̐͑̒͊̀̈́̾̐̉̊̀̔̍̎̀͆̃͂͑̏̓̓͆̏̇͑͆̋͛͆̀̌̇̐̓͐̎͗̌̊̔̏̒͗̂̓̀̂͘̕̕̕̚̕͘̚͘̕͘̚̕͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͠ͅ ̸̢̡̢̧̧̧̧̨̨͙̰̙̙̪̗̻͎͇̱̱̩̩̜̞̣̩̠̪̝͖͓̥̠̭̪̖͙̱̘̞̦̟͚̤̝̖͖̺̜̥͚̲̤̫̖͖͚̤̻̳̭͔̗̩̟̬̲͚͔̦̘̪̩͓͖̠͍̩͖̜͈͇͓͉̲̟̮̝̭͍̼̩̙̘̗̩̙̠̞̗̻̲̬̹̯̩̲̹̘̩͉̗̲̰̦̼̙͓̭̘̼̺͈̤̝̃̽̈̑́̈́̆́̀̇̃̒͊̋͌̑͛̊͒̔̉͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠ẃ̶̨̧̨̨̧̢̛̘̮̣̪̥̤̪͓̙̼̹̝͙̣̞̙͖͖̳͚̦̘͚̟͙͚̙̜͍͇̦̘̬̭̩̼̯̲̙̜̰̦͍͕̱̜̖̬͙̰̜̦̗͙̫͖̣͙͔̘̞̝͓͎̞͉̭͍̮̫̜̻͙̱̟̝̞͙͈͔͓͓̬̻̓̀̔̒̃̇̄̏̂̃̒̐̀̈́̽̅̾̈́̾̽͆̔́̉̓̋̈̇̾͊̐̊̑͗̾̌͛͊̎̓̎͋͌́̓͛̂̐̇͋̂͌̿́́̊̈́̌̔̐͊̏̽̈́̆̓̓̏́̃̏̾̇̅̈́͌̂̆̒͒̈́̇̆̍̒̔̊͐̓̒́̔̏͑͒̈͂́̈́̊̆̊̉͆͊̌̅͌̂̃͗͊̈́̓̈̀̔̍͌̍̈͒̔̍̽͐͛͒̈́͛̋͗̔͑̐̎͑̏͌̕͘̚̕̚͘̚̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅa̷̢͕̰͖̖̩̺̫̭̣̹̩̤͆̀̒̃̂̑̈́̃̄͘̚͝͝ͅr̶̢̧̡̢̡̡̛̛̘͕͖̯̫͎͙̯̻̜̙̫̲̙̙̣̳̱̮̬͈͓̮̳͕͖̭̙̟̫͓̝͚̫̥͕̩̤̤̬̝̱͈͙̱̻̲̤̗̺͕̼͍̟̠͚̖̦̝̠̼̗͉̹̪̺̹̬̗̗̩̲̥̥̤̞̪̹̳̥͙̩̖̹͖͇̮̝̞̮̤̳̰͓̻͓̻̳͔͖̖͍̻̤͇͕͇̅̿̏̓̽̂́̀̀̊̓͑̅̽́̿͂̒̆̇̄̈̽̀͆͗͋̔̽̇̈́̾̽̈́̿͂͑̔̓͑͆͌̾́̿͐̂̋̑̇̌͌̒̍̈̾̒̂̃͐̃̿̏̀̍̌͐͑͑̅͛́̅͊̔̾̏̈́͆̎̃̀̑́͐̉̀̾͂̏̈́̈́̏̔̔̓̓͆͘̚͘̕͘̕̕͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅm̵̡̛̼̫̖͍͓̱̬̰̣̺͔̠̣̤̱̞̲̌͂̆͊̃̀̏̊́̍͂͗̆̎̀̿̓̋́̃̌̐̆̑̈́̇̃̋̊̐̈́̊̔̊̈́̀̀͑͗̍͑̐̓͗̔̊̾̒̏͛̿͗́͛̄̎̅̐͛́̎̂̔̽̂̎́̐͐̾̓̏́̉̽̈̄͐̋̈́͗̿̎̉̽͑̌̓̈̒̑̿̅̓̓̎́̒̄͌̒̌̃͒̾̀̒̽̋̄̽̔͒͑̒̍̌͆͒͑͐̍̆̈́͑͗̃̔̐̊͑͆̀̀͂̆̃͌̿̐̉̀̾̃͆̓̈́͊͗̀͛̈̀̾̐̈̊͗̌̈́̎͌̀̚͘̚̚̚̚̚̕̕̕̕̚͘͜͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅ ̷̡̛̛̼̲̺̭͖̹̭̗͔̼̼̺̠̱̳̗͚͉͌̿͐̓̃̄̾̌͌̑̎͊̈̂̋̒̀̽͌͛̔́͐̀̐̃͛̾̈́͛̔̋̀̈́͒͆̎͌̌̂̔̄̈̈́͆̎͗͌̏̋̀̂͒̉͊̐̄̽̈́̏̆̆̐̄́̄͒̒̍̂̆͑͛̎̒́̐̿̋̍̅͂̓̅̀̿͋̃̉͊̿̚͘͘̕̕̕̕̚͘͘͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅş̴̢̛̛̛̛̛̞̱̗̳̭̯̬̻̟̬̻̰̙̮̬͇͚̬͙͍̦̟̮̺̹̤̬͔͕͎̦̥̝͉̳̅̎̒̉̅̋̓͑̂̉̅̋̔̑̔͗̿͗̎̈́̅̉͑̿̏̈́̌̐̍̆̀̄̈́̒̽͊́̋͑͒͌̀͗͒̊͐̒̐́́̄̐́͂́́̀̆͋̈́̄̓̒̌͊̀̊̿̌̌̓̀̐̀̈́͗̅̆̊̅͆̊̒̈́̉̀̃̿̓͌̃́̊͊͌̇̄̊̀̏̾̆̔͛͗̽̃͐̀͐̀̈́̅́̐̄̌̈́́̏̃͒̀̔̿̈̓̋́̉̾̊̿̎͒̀̌̈̇̿̋͂́́͒̓̊̓̌͛̆̏͌̄̓̿͑̃̉́͂͂̏̆̅̇́͑̓̉̚̚̚̚͘͘̚̕̕̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅp̸̧̢̧̧̧̨̧̧̧̡̡̧̡̧̢̨̡̛̛̛̛̫͓̟͙̯͔̣̘̯̯̮̯̜̼̝̙̪̮̤̙̙̫͇̟͈̙͉̪͚̖̰̞̜̟̥͓̻͉̱̼̺̖̱̝͚̼̬̥͉̮̱̟͎̼̠̮͎͙̹̙͔͇̝̲͕̥̫̙͙̩͉̫̫̺̤͖̞͙͉̫͉̰̫͔͖̳̠̙̻͈̟̰͉̪͎̤̭̲͓̲̲̥͓̣̲̞̭͉͓̠̼̰͈̤̙͖̣̳͔̦͓̯͉͇̱͉͚̹͚̥̰̪̘̈́̄̈͂̓͋͌̌̑̔̊̾̈́̃̍͌̌̆̊̀̽́̒͛̇̀̋̀̑̀̂͆͋͐͛̈́͛̈̾͊͛̔̃̽̑͛́̇̎̇̀̔̎́̿͑̉̾̋͗͗̊͆̆̈́̋͑̑̾̎̈́͒̏̍͆̉̆̉̀͆̉̄̏͑̈́̽̋͌͛͑͑̆̿̇̈́̌̈́̿̍̾̉͊͛̄̈̈́̇̽̇̄͊͆͆͗̌̒̾̈̂͊͑̀̌̓̚̕͘͘̕͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅǫ̴̧̨̛̛̛̫͔̠̺̯̥͈͎͈̞̙͎͓͎̠̺̻̻̣͈͖̲̲̱̞̬̜̲̯͎̖͈͖̗̲̖̯̩̟̯̠͔̪̒͂͌́̀̾̌͑̒̃͂̔̓̆͗̔̎̀̔́͊̿͒͆̀͛͋͒͑͛͌̑̂̉̑̉͊̎̓́͋̾̋̆̈́̓̀͒́̊͂̈́͐̈́̆̆͂̈̎͋̍͌̆̉̆̎͋̋̋̓̎̌̆̇̋̕͘̕̕͜͝͠͝͝͝t̶̨̡̡̡̨̢̧̡̢̢̨̛̛̛̛̗̣̘͉͇̠̲̳̺̹̩̱̺̫͉̫̱̣̻̹̻̼͔̜̼̟̖̟̠͍̲͉͎͚͚͇̮̰̱͚͇͓̞̻̭̱͖̫͕͚̱͕͎̰̫̼̣͕͔̩̙̰̻̙̲͙̠͖͈̲̜̞̫̮̙̤̫̱͇̬̞̩̼͇͉͉͎͔̙̪̩̫̞̬̪̱̠̯̩̮̗͎̬͉̺̰̯̣̯͚̗͕̐̆̀̋̇̀̆̅̋̅͌̈͐̀͂́̇̒͆̏́̑̂̉͐̎́̾́̓͋̑̑̆͐͐̽̾̄̆̓̿̊̒̉̌̔̓̂͆̓̈́̔͆͗̏́̊͛̒̍̄̀̃̎̅̋͂̍̀̉͒̀̾̈́͐̾͆̑̎̈̎̾̄͗̃̅͋͌͂̌͊͛̉͐͆̀̇̉̉̽̅̏̏̔̀̋̔̐̉͑̂̀̂͑̈́́͛̓͐͋̐̿̽̇̌͂̒̐͆̂̽͊̽̎͑͆̈́̽͌̎͗̇̓͆̔̋͗̓̅̀̏́̌̀̔͗̿̀̓́̑̍̈́̒̃̋͑̎̀̎̊̓̾̕̚̚̕͘̕̚̕̚̚͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅ ̷̧̡̨̢̧̛̛̹̜̼̪͎͇͕̖͉̪̺̩̠̠̼̫͚͎̳͓̟͈̙̳͖̼̟̰͚̰̬͇̮̹͑̈́͗̓͛̊̓̽̐͊̄͐̔̉̀̓͋͛͋́͊̒͊́̽̌̅̈̉̽̏͒̄̑́̒̔̅́̓͌̌͋̀̽͆̓͂̋͒͒̇̒̽̊̈́̓̓̓̑̋̄̔̌͛̾̀̎͑̓̿̃̾͆̀̎̔̊̆͑͂̔͌̌́̓͂̊̐̓̃͆̋̏̃̆̈́͂͛͐̀͆̂́̋̔̉̐̈̐͐͂̈́̈͗̽͆͐̿͗̎͛̈́̎̽̋̅͘͘̕̕̕͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅį̶̧̧̢̢̡̨̨̢̢̡̧̨̛̝̣͈͓̮͍͍̦̲͇̯͚̞̤͓̜̲̱̯̙̞̰̺̳̠̲̭̙̗̩͔͈̠̖͙̱̙̙͖̻̗̳̳̜̙͍̯̩̥̼͕͇͉̣̩̦̩͍̪̤̜̩̩̠̲̤͇͉͔̜̮̜͍͕͔͙͔͓̣̬͉̻̠͙̤͍̖̤̲̫̗̲͙̆̋͐̊̈́̋̾̂͆̾̈́̐̀͑͌̊̍̀͋̿͆̇̆̓͗͂̇͛̽̉̊̃̂͋͑̐̆͛͆̓̈́́̋̂̀͆̂̋̿̈̂̎̀̒̈́̾̇̓̊̑̂̿͌̾̎̇͗̎̆͂͗̃̓͆̊̀̂͗̽͐̏͂͋̔̈̏͑̄̆̉̿̊͛̋́̏́͊̃̐̑͌̍̋͊̍͂̈́̔́̉̆͗͒̈͛̓̅͌̊͑̽̿̊̆̆̅̊́͋̾̌͒̔̔́͐̾͒̆͐̎̎̈́͐̈́̔̿̕͘̚̕͘̚̚̕̚̚̕̕͘͘͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅn̵̨̢̨̧̡̢̛̦̥͙̰̲̬͓̥͓͙͓͕͉̫͍̖̹̗̠͈̙̱̳͉̰̲̹̘͙͕̣̮̣͓̰̘̫̝͇̤͚͎͕͉̫͔͇̹̫͙̜̰̮̗̙̺͇̪̲̬̺̪̦̤͈̪̞̙̬̮̝̭̠̹̳̟̯̣̠̻̹̫̳̺͇̱̲̠̳̰̳͊̓͐͌̓̈̾̽̍̅͗͐̋̌͊̒̓͗̂̎̊̓͛́̓̈͑̂̾̈́̋̑̓͒́̚͘͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̡̡̨̧̛͈̱͓͇̳̱̘̥͕͈̘͓͇͈͔̭̱̝̪̱̬͈̼̰̗͚̯̫̘̘̫͙͎̮͕̩̯̩̟̭̟̮̯̭̜͈̳̯̝͚̫̫̮̯̠͈̣͇̗̰̩̘̩͙̺̜͕̖̼̺̥͍͎̬̳̝̥̼͙͉̎́́͐̎̑͐̍̇̄́̑͛͂͂̈̎̌͆̋̒̈́̇͋̃̌̊́̅̇̅͋̃̊̒̐̒͒̌̽̈́͌̈́̐̓̍͊̐͛̌̈́̀́̔̈́̾̿̀̓̊̉̽̏̈́͘̕̕͘͘͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅţ̶̨̧̡̡̡̡̢̧̢̥͈̼͎͕̞͎̞͖̘͓͎̠̣͍̟̝̠͈̥̰̗͍͚͇̭̦̭̞̯̜̳̼̖͚̦̩̜̠͍̳͙̳͈͖͖͇̞̳̰̦̣̺̺͔̖̠͓͙̩͚̟̠̗̟̬̙̺̲͎͚̮͕̜̤̥̫͙̣͔͇̣͙̪͈͚͔̥̮̗͕͖͙̝͙͎̱̙̣̆̌́̃̾̈́̈̊̓͗̍̽̉̃̿̾̊͊͒́̉̈̔̐̀̋̅̾́̑̍̾̑̄͋̑̈́͋̅̀̒͂͗̄̆̒̈́͑̐̅̒̐͆̀̉̓̄̈̔̐̂̑̂̃̆̑̾̌̆̈́̈́̆̎̿́̈͆͌̆̍͐̑̈́͒̇̈́͒̓̒̑̿̅̈́̓̐̓̎̄̒̀͆͂͌̆͐̉̋͋̎̄̈́̂͒̀̑͌̅̈́̽͒̊̋̌̈́̇̽̉͊̓̽͘̚͘̕͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͠͠ͅḩ̶̢̢̧̨̡̢̧̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̱̪͓͙̤͓͉͎̠͇͙̱̣̝͙̳̫̖͕̜̯̝̖͔̼͔̘͈̗̘͎̗͇̳̮̲̹͎̗͇͍͎̮̣̣͍̱̰͖̱͙̞̻͖̭̥̙͕̬͎̮̼̗̣̠͉̱͔̟̠͉͕͔̬̮͕̝̦̘̤̩͔̱̲̫̹̯̘͈̥̳͉̼͉̖͓̳̱̬̗͚̦͖̞̦̘͓̗̫̲̫͉̹͎̳̫͉̙̥̰̰͔͕͎̙͉̙̦̖̊̀̂̾̆̃́͊̐͆͊͆͋̈́̌͒͂̒̈́̈́͑͂̓̀͒̎̅̒̊̅̉̽̈́́̐̅̒̓͆̌́̇̃̉̀̏̐̓̊͂͒́̈́́͛͛̍͌̆̂̀̃̒̌̒̐͌̄̄̀̾̒̍̌̋̑̀̈́̌̓̽̌̾̏̑̊̀̽̍̔̿̏͋͛̈́̋͛̂͒̈̏͐̿́͐̍̍̄̓̆͋̐̔̇̈̓̊͆͐̎̌͊̋̆̒̾̉̕̕̕͘̕̕͘͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅe̵̛̛̛̛̤̒́̋̽̂̊̽̃͆̉̀̇̂͂͑͊̈̀́͐͋̉̽͆͋͐̌̂͛͑̈́̑̒̔̈́̈́̆̇͆͆̓̈́̆̆̒̎͗̈́̓̈̔̋̅̀̌̄̓̎̈́̎̈̒̄͛̋̑̽̍̽̈́̋̄͌͐̎͌́̃͑̿̾͒̃̒͊̓̑̔̑̀̐̀̏̈̏̅̄͐̀̓̓̂̓̆͑̃̏͛̇̔̀̊̃͐͂́̀̕͘̚̕͘̕̕̚͝͝͝͝͝ ̶̧̧̢̛̛̥̠̳̫̝̳̭̞̟͎̯̥̠̹͕͕͇̮̻͓̙̻̼̤̙̳̤̩͑͌̿̂̉̑̋̎̎͑̓́͂̏̀̾̊̊͌̔̂́́̏̋̆͋̄̊̀̒̏̄̉̈́͑̄̃́̌̊̌͆̉͑̊́̐̑̃͋̈́̊͆͂̇̓̋͂͋͂͘͘͘̕͝͠͝͠͠ͅś̷̨̡̢̡̧̨̛̛̛̛͍̺̲̖̮̗͕͕̫̻͎̩͖͖̣͔̪͕̘̮͚͕͈͓̩̝̦̩̱̗̭͇͎͇̻̗̙̳͖͚͈̯̮̱͙̺̮͍͎̹̙̼̠̞̞̦͛͑͐͂̀̓̀̒͑̅́̔́̍̾̀́̓̽̃̌͊̽̋̔͂̋́̿́͑̀́̍̍̔͆̌̅̇̇̀̊́͆̿̽̉̇̌̂̑̀̉͊̅̋̃̽̌͗͐̆͒̀̈́̊̾̀̐̍̈̓͐̾͊͌̐͘̕͘̕͘̚̕̕͜͠͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͠ư̶̡̢̧̢̧̢̨̧̨̡̢̢̢̧̡̢̢̡̢̛̛̻̞̝̬͙͚̟̤͇̗̰̤͕͔̹̩̯̞͙̰͚̹̯̠̪̺̖̟̹͓̘̞̣͖͇̮̘̱̳̹̗̮̗͇̼̪̖͉̱̙̺͕̟̥̮̟̳͖̫̯̟͙̟̮͉̲̳̹̖̲͉̙̼̤͍͖͙͉̼͉̟̰̖̩̺̼̱͔͔̼̯͉̩̝̳̦͔̰̹̖̝̫̠̲̹̥͖̰̦͔̤̦̪̠̱̖̲͍̞̲͎̠̣͔͙̘̰͈̣̼͉̻͓̼̪̲̜͉͂̒̓̓̓̃͒͊̎̈́̅̂̽́̈́͂͋̂̐͂̀͐̓̀͊́̄̓̇̾̆͌̀̐͆̈́̏̀̓̓̎͛̿́͌͌̔͘͘͜͜ͅͅn̷̡̧̛̛̮̮̯̯̤͕͎̯̳͔̟̗͎̪̦̟̩̫̫͔̺̠͓̱̣̹̮̔͑̈̏̈́͋͛̍͗̈́͑͗͆̆͐͛̑̆̓̃̆͊̔̍̃̽̀̅̆̈́̀̉̍̅́̈́̈́̓̈́̈̌́̓͗̍̐́͆̑̑̉͐̆̈̍̅̐͋̈͘̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠
̵̢̢̨̨̧̢̧̨̡̨̧̨̡̡̡̢̢̧̢̡̛̛͙̙͔̬̘̳̜͔̻̮̪̣͓͙̗̦̙̠̮͇͕̖̫̗͔͇̬̪̹̩̪̖̘̘̣̺̼͙̩̤͇̳̲̖̯̩̻͎̭̭̰̪͍̺̳͖̫̫̥̼͓̲̘͕̺̳̩̠̬̥̲̫̘̟̗͙̱̟̤̘̦̹̦͎̞̭͕̥̮̤͇͖͙̬̻̞͚͔͙̘̳̺̭͕̳̗̮̩̫̰̻̭̱͓̤̪̭̺̲̠̦͎̣̬̗̲̹͓̭͕́͑͒͂̽̌̀́̏̂̌͊̈́̀́̋̈́͌̅̆̏̌̀̅͗͊̓̋̌̐̊͊̈́͋̌̐͒̿͐̃̍͌͒̅̿̑̾͛͐̐̀̈́́̽̈́̆̂͌̽̉̈̀̆͆͐͂̑͆̾̅́͂̆̓̈̏̊̒̓̎͑́̀̽̆̽̎͆̒̃̈́̆̄̈́̊̀̓̎͐̆̔̈̓̊̂̓̍̑͒̐̐̐̒͘̕̚̕̕̚̕̕͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠
̶̡̡̡̢̢̡̡̡̧̨̡̨̧̡̧̨̢̢̡̨̨̛̛̱̬͉̝̠͕̻͎̰͔͔͉̳̫̝̮̼̞̩͔̯̱̩̥͙͎̱͎̠̼͈̝͚̦̱̞͉̣͎͚̞̞̱̹̜̭̪̪̫̟̺̥̭̞̲̠̦͚̪̠̖͔̱̼͙̙̬̩̮͈̮̞̯̤̱̣͕̠͕̣̝͙̼̺̲̮̬̼̯̥̪͕̞̪̼̙̯͓̠͓̥̫̮̤͎̭̟̭̼̳̘͓̯̦͈̱͕͖̭̠͔͉̫̫̦̻͙̩̲̰̜͇͈̱̭̘̝͚̭̩̝̫̪̝̣͙͙͉͉̯̩̖͍̘͓̎̑̐̑̎̋͋̂̔̄̅́̊̏̈́͗̐͐͗̐͐̓̃̌̑́͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅį̵̧̡̧̧̨̢̡͈̻͈͙͔̭͎͇̥̱̪̭͖͇̦̣͔͖̘̼̭̙͓̭̫͚̩͔̰̘̭̫͓͍̼͈̬̦̗̺̤̜͔̹̤͓̘̹̥̩̦̦͇̻̩̿̍̈́̅͑̏͌̄͛͋̽͛͐̎̉͗͗̋̾͒̒͌͐̚͘͠͠͝͠t̶̨̨̢̧̩̦̰̖͇̞̲̫̺͔̝͉̜͇̼̲͎̪̫͕͙͙̺̫̼̥̠̦͙̦͍̣̖̤̰̞͔̣͎̫͖̥̎̈́́̌͛̀͗̈́͊͆̒̄̂͑͐̽͛̉͆̃̀̊̒́̈̈́̀͌̏̾̽̀͛͑̏̄͐̂̓̈́̓̽́̀͊͗̉̾̀͊̈́͂́̃̿̂͂̿̒̆̽͒͗̊̀̓͛͐̌̕͘̚̕̚͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͝ͅ ̴̢̨̨̛̛̫͇̱͙͍͍͓͎͔̣̤̤̖̗͓̭͈̺̦̻̱̻̅͌͂͆̈̊̉̆̅́̿̃̒̂̈́̌̅̈́͛̍̒͑͆̉͗͂̋͂́̈́͆͌̿̿̓̊̈́̊̈̑̎͐̑̽͐̏̑̈́͆̋̇̓̄́̈̐́̀̎͌̋̐̅̃̄̎̇͂̑̓̍̄̚̕͘̚̕̚͝͝͠͝͠͝͝ͅș̶̢̡̨̻̹̱͈̮̬͉̣͕̼̤͓̺͎̒̆̑̎̈͛̇͒̎͛͊̏́̉͋̀̓̒̓̅͜͝e̵̢̨̡̧̡̢̧̡̡̨̧̡̝̰͓͖͚̮̱̬͈̟̻̭͎͚̜͈̣̫̤͙̣͓͍̩̼̻̭̖̜̺̭̱̺̮͈͓̬̺̰̺̳̞̪͍̠̘̺̞͓̙̖͉̩̫̗̮̘͙̱̺̥̞͖̖̟̱̯̳͎̮͍̩͎̭͇̰̪̺̤͍̭͔̬̻͚̹̪̟̺͓̱͙̹̫͖̙͙̙̰̺̠̪͍̬͈̖̻͎͙̤̻̳̻̱̥͈̤̩̮̞͎̲͖͈͕͙̥͔͖͈̖͖̦̪̼̟̙̻̻̫̙̝̬̯̻̭̘̜̻̤̭͔͍̗͈̝̜̻͈̻͖͙̗̣͉̣͖͖̖̬͈͓̖͚̣̬̓̓̐̀̑̍̉̒͋̓̓̅̆̈́͐́̈́̓͛̈́́̐́͂̑͗̒͌̄͆͋̀̀͛̐̌͗̓̐̐̿̍̈́̆͋͛̈͋͐͒̈́͒͑̅͊̂͋͌̂͑̇̈́̽̀̓̊́̓̂̕̕̚̚̚̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͠͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅţ̷͉̙̬͕̗͍̤̯͉̈́̊̍̏̒̅͂̔̆̿̎͆̎̇͋͘͘͠͠ś̸̡̧̧̛̛̛̙̜̺̜̣̪̜̬̲͇͉̪̰̘͍̖̣̩̤̯͇̜͙̳̲̳̯̬̫̹̝̫͇̙̟̙͈͕̣̱̯̮̲͈̹̩͔̲͕̫̤̦͙̮̺̗̠̜̦̭̺̩̭̲͉̜͙̙̬̭̦̬̥͔̗̩͕̟̩͊͌͑̄͐̔̈̂̑̇̑͋̓̀͌̾̔̀͑͆̄̍͊͑͐̒̽̒͋̀̉̽͊̉̆̾̊͋̾̈̒̏̀̎̌̒̆̄̔̇̂͒̿̏̈̎̃̅͆̍̃͂̊̎́̍̾̍̓̐͛̋̓̒̅̊̃͐͒̈́̇̅̈́̓̃̑̀͊̉̋̇̽̒́̓̆̀̔͐̕͘̚̕̕͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠
touka Dec 2019
she must be in such pain
I always think
I always, always think

but still her ire gets the best of me

her pain is not quiet, not to me;

it's thrashing, kicking
screaming, crying, willing
to wring the garrote
of her small hands
around my neck

it's her quivering lip
spilling forth short "I'm sorry's" and
calling for my embrace
and then her small frame turning
to drub on the same wounds again,

again,
again
again, again
again again again again—

the flame's rising
and rising,
and I'm quick to rush in!
but I'm too small,
like spit on the fire

it's too hard,
it's too hard,
it's too hard


and even more I ruin my size

tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow
tomorrow, tomorrow

there is always tomorrow

like I'll wake up
with my wounds gone
touka Oct 2021
we were too late to you

I imagine my bones breaking -
as if I could feel it

the same note I keep chasing,

the same tone
intonating touch

we were too late to you

it roped you in,
tired you quick
slick and quiet
going slack
into that subterfuge
of thick, dark ooze
sleazing up past your feet
to your knees
that sick, black mire
so much like ink

climbing up through your pores,
into your mouth, your nostrils,
in-between your teeth
with a gurgle and a sputtering

obscuring all of you, anything that I could see

the swathe
the death of your good

where no-one can sort you from the muck -
where no-one should

no-one human

we were too late to you

I imagine my bones breaking
as if I could feel it

from my one day in the centrifuge,
the same note I keep waking to,

the same tone, too -
insensate;
it is rushing like so much blood

only so much I can lose

no-more-touch

I hate the taste,

like pennies and dimes

and

I was too late

God,

good God,

I was too late

wonder is reserved
for nights far beyond the snatching of time
separate from even a catch, a breath, a whiff of it
the death of your good
no peripheral view
the clock so like the centrifuge

none such, because tonight
my head is bobbing on the reservoir -
the waters,
long removed from me

a breath in, just until its dousing me

I breathe unlike you
I breathe, unlike you

it roped you in
tired you quick

as such, too easy
to be too late

Good, good God

far too late

I rush back and forth where it's wet,
in the muck, in the rain -
find good, pretty things in the mud

like flowers in sediment,
stones I'll never wash

imagine my bones breaking
imagine me under the cloche

I would never clean you up -
what a charade,
because I was too late

you decided to give in and now look at what you've started -
here in the halves, and halves, and halves of you

where nothing's left

stunted sot
in deep misuse

in force, and sense, and centrifugal view
you lowered your head for that breath-stealing noose

imagine if I never knew!

God,

imagine if I knew before the bruise

before the bells sounded
under my dress
inside my head

imagine me under the cloche
the bells spurring, jarring off notes

the same I keep chasing,

the same tones -
intonating touch

the same God-awful rush

we were too late
30 years too late

climbing up through your pores,
into your mouth, your nostrils
in-between your teeth

the teeth I think of,
smiling

but you can't see, and won't say anything
long gone in the ink

the letters that cocoon drips off,
squelches,
scrawls to me

in the rain and mud and sloshing sluck
going slack into it

and I, in the cleaner waters,
in the cloche

but imagine what you could do to a pretty white dress, looking like that

pretty and white,
like white doves' feathers

so I'll clean up the same way I used to
cover every bit of flesh

and somewhere inside of the sludge
you could call it your brand-new skin
take-it-or-leave-it

but you say nothing

and I have no doves' feathers
only pennies and dimes
and a couple of dirt-caked treasures

and the ever-present, subtle sense of motion
that I will never lose
from my one day in the centrifuge

the same God-awful rush of notes, and

going slack
into that subterfuge

I decide,
our eyes will close before that part -
always

and the child in me whines

we were too late to you
touka Feb 2019
a stones throw from freedom

so, I toss
aimless

wear down the wick,
burn into the small hours

til' the sun basks

suppose I dream in absolutes

from the ceiling, a billion petals;
rose consorting with the floor

come to smother me

the sweet balm,
that last-ditch adamance
the last scent on my breath

do I wake in a sweat
with reason to?

waking being my first misstep
walking penrose stairs

I feel it

suppose I pose more premonition
knowing what I might

a hairs breadth

so
aimless

I dream that I touch it
touka Sep 2018
cold
sordid, alone

sour milk
I spill and swim in
summer aestus
as kind as they've been
smiles, sharp
glasgow
sin

don't touch me

the dream, gone
the deed, foreborne
the viceroy and its mimicry

wilt, milk thistle
to milkweed's thief
bloodflower
and antelope horns

strike the ear
of my fresh reprise
overwintered, ignorant

surely, somewhere, in the thick of it

the monarch swings
and the monarch strikes

two ends meet
for a sharp excise

galvanize the girl to grow
let whatever you speak stoke

paltering
preying
perusing me
of whatever deficit
×
hammers
to the black vein
touka Mar 2018
a blip
on a blight
on a mote
on a microbe
a sea of stardust
black silk
and white rope

hung
above her head
passing, people start to pour in
and limbs hang like they're dead
tingle with their poor sin

a bead
on a brow
on a cry
quiet mystery
a blip
on a blight
on a brick
in the wall

phase
the night, the numbs a haze
the sounds, the stars that scattered
how far she'd had the ache
how slight, the rings of saturn

a haste
on a heart
to calm it down
a push, a pull
to soak it in
the art around

so small, then
regret sets in
the song in the room
and the ghost let in
long that one would leave it soon

a pulse,
a parse
and a hubric hope
tense,
tingling, the sinking *****
sinks into
the stars around
"it's all a blur, happened way too fast
but I'm glad that it's what we had"
touka Oct 2015
cemeteries worn
delicately fall on chests

like grandmother's old necklaces

and inscriptions from headstones
draped in cold bronze

bought and sold, their epitaphs

like grandmother's old word

her lovely verbs

swathed in gold,

and ever were costly rhinestones weaved in

until every meaning to her lovely words were lost.
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