"dins" poems
*veins of my fingers in riots of blossomed colours
like threads made of lilac, lavender, blues and leafs.
for the blues are essences of the Elysian skies,
while lilacs, lavenders and leafs were stolen from an old man's farm
every dawn the sunlit blue wept for the docile stars' hide
I knock my knuckles red and wild, like the raspberries from the monsieur's farm
my chin against the beige, I gaze to where the magpies talk too loudly on the garden moist
swollen and offended by the loud chirps of boisterous dins, the grouchy neighbour cry.
I fill my baskets with wild things and papers,
I have cheese and juices, fruits and sweet carrots.
I have peach trees on my nails for jam
I have cherries in my toes for pie
I have snows in my lapin's soul for some ice creams
I have poppies in my worn pants for a good sight
And there's even vineyards of all Verona in my mind
the ribbons on the hat loom into the gardens' tunnel;
I have herb gardens, I have secret gardens
And I have my old books and pens in there.
when my laces are riven, the embroidered flowers are not.
the canvas shoes is painted in petrichors and soil
my dresses go tattered, sewn with patches
into the vines, thorns and russet throats I lilt and leap
against smells of rustic wood pencils and redolent flowers
There, under a green willow is where to sit and devour wisdom
and to drink some saccharine wine with mon lapin and maybe some picnic pies.
The abominable tremors will be gone,
My morn soul diving into fairy pools of sensuous europhias.*
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
Rattan letter rack stuffed
with hundreds of coupons
like requests to the Gods
sits under shrine
called the spice rack.
Little bottles
as dusty on outside
as within,
have no aroma left.
This temple's kitchen counter
top is mustard asterisks on
ivory laminate, so reminiscent
of ancient wonder.
These late '60's early '70's
design elements, lacquered
over with grease of yesterday's
din-dins, are only indicative
of where the resident wished
to be.
Now, even India, has lost
authentic texture, alluring space
and line, in these Internet times.
Though he can still smell cardamom,
nutmeg, and cinnamon waft from
Southeast. It is stuck in his mind.
Yet, since time of his dearly
departed's passing, no sandalwood
has been burned and he only
eats corn flakes.
America has changed him so.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
Heart beat mad into chest.
Introduction to one-gloved hand,
soft as silk and
hectic as twenty-first century sunlight shining on 1942 stone architecture.
Terrible stench upon entering,
dripping from the bag
tossed into the metal disposable bin.
Echoes; dins.
Flint carved sharp into shears
plagiarism down to the wire.
Preposition, search the list for antonyms
and synonyms
and cannibalism dream that wakes a man up
at an hour, two hours too early.
Eye problems from staring at the computer screen.
And leaning, fast and forward into the face
of a full grown, beard.
A laugh, much too much like the written down
pronunciation.
False, endearingly false.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
Acabe de recordar l'última vegada que em vas mirar,
vas tancar ràpidament els ulls i vas baixar el cap..
Sabies que en aquell moment vas canviar la meua percepció del daurat clar apagat per una de completa felicitat? Que la teua veu exclamant baixet "Quins ulls!" encara evoca partícules també daurades que resplandeixen i giren suaument?
Que per primera vegada els colors no intenten amuntegar-se dins i davant meua quan m'atrapen els teus ulls?
Que quedant-me ahí no hi ha una sola tonalitat que gose immiscuir-se o privar-me d’ells?
Que no sé com es pinta perdre's a la teua mirada?
Que no em perd a propòsit, però que cada vegada més em trobe desfent-me de brúixoles i mapes?
Que desitjaria no saber llegir altres estrelles que em pogueren guiar?
Que tu ets el meu únic sol i que d'on s'exhala la teua llum és on vull estar..
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
And know that these streets are irresponsible,
and that you are too. And that no matter
how bright your eyes and headlamps may be
you will always find something you didn’t
see before. Life will always be throwing at you
curveballs. And car insurance. And the ungainly heft
of police officers leering in lustily at the watch on your
wrist and the hollowed, hungry eyes of your companion.
Do not answer them, I beg of you, when they ask
you too for your name and your father's,
for they truly care not to hear
its sound. They only want to add to the noise -
continue living beneath its dins. Not after money but the
fear, the control that from you stem. Now, yes
I may be over-exaggerating (after all, it was but one
slight dent in the bumper of the car, but
there is no exaggeration to the voicelessness of they
who queued before me, no companions guiding them,
no voices shouting for them.) He, they, there, by the streets,
only has in his hands a car horn. And so he honks.
And so the siren wails. And so the chaos reigns.
And so do they - officers - living silently beneath it all,
urging us onward to yelling and screaming and shouting.
And yet we can’t. And we don’t. And we won’t.
And yet they, for all their damages, do not - scratch,
refuse not - to do so.
They only can look down at the pavement,
dotted yellow, black and white dashed.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
electric — conflated with
the doldrum of once ignited feeling
on the russet table work
and the stringing aroma of flyblown
coffee painting the morning something
earthenware;
i imagine
women lounging
and displaying their flamboyant dresses
confessing a dull promenade
parading their attenuated ***** reveling
a queendom on recall and this bane,
merely resolute, gives itself a new
meaning as a hand of forgive
men resigning their bags on the corner,
grunts, heaves deathly serious disallowing tomorrow's arrival into
a throb of being in place, folding newspapers to a club and smiting fervently along with the endless waiting,
verses lying cold on the froth of the tile
and the wind ripening the brew of
contestations — punctuations in their
cupboards still and reserved in hermetic
space curating silence, giving dins
their polished ends,
open for all: churlish boys,
naked girls, faith-used women, strife-torn men, usual suspects,
rebels and the overwrought –
never closes like a hand in cold
or a rose, its face occulted by
identification sideways torn, inside and out struggling,
scrunched to squint on some pale light through chinks on the battered
wall, sipping coffee,
mmmm, that
morning ripple transcending the
heaviness of the city before me.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Always seeked that blood,
yours pink
mine black
yours healthy
mine slack
So bus in getting yours,
To make mine better.
But never thought the same syringe would plague you,
that gave me life.
another new badge for my sins,
for my silent brutal merry dins.
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
I am a shadow of a shadow
Creeping through existence
And the bleakest realities
Of a life bereft of love
I am a faithless angel
Believing in nothing
And praying for the end
Of a life bereft of love
I am a quiet crypt
Entombing a silenced soul
And a muted mind
Of a life bereft of love
I am a vast ocean
Encapsulating emptiness
And the cold dark void
Of a life bereft of love
I am a rotten corpse
Decaying slowly to time
And mundane dreariness
Of a life bereft of love
I am a voracious vampire
Craving the night
And draining the veins
Of a life bereft of love
I am a clandestine mystery
Withholding the secrets
And worthless revelations
Of a life bereft of love
I am a cold-blooded serpent
Slithering in lies
And venomous mendacity
Of a life bereft of love
I am a grim visage
Adopting false smiles
And fallacious contention
Of a life bereft of love
I am a ghost of a phantom
Haunting the living
And those who know not
Of a life bereft of love
I am a hellish demon
Burning in impurity
And corrupted innocence
Of a life bereft of love
I am a lonesome sepulcher
Dwelling in solitude
And self-imposed isolation
Of a life bereft of love
I am a forlorn oblivion
Devouring light
And what radiance remains
Of a life bereft of love
I am a hollow shell
Resonating dins of depravity
And tortured screams
Of a life bereft of love
I am a deceitful siren
Beguiling lost passerby
And luring them to shores
Of a life bereft of love
I am a black rose
Wilting in misery
And withering beauty
Of a life bereft of love
I am a self-destructive beast
Rampaging in anger
And constant frustration
Of a life bereft of love
I am a spreading disease
Afflicting this world
And all of mankind
Of a life bereft of love
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 1:17 AM UTC
Seven trees with flowing winds
Leafs free in rooms to sky
With its known roots and kind widths
Making its own will reply
Several plans in twiggy stair
In cause to his own seeds
How i lien to thyself so fair
Asking horizon for more deeds
To connect ways to climb
Sheer growth in veins to wins
By grasp the matter clime
Leer faith into green dins
Flexures to its first leaf
A seer , round and huge
Intimate bond to evergreen deaf
Connate spirit to age & use
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 5:54 AM UTC
Lamb of God, my ears are thirsting for the healing Word.
Patient listening carefully Thy voice is not yet heard
amidst the world's cacaphony
and all competing dins.
Sacred Heart of Jesus, mercy, please forgive my sins.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
kissing at the street lights
going to bars
dancing in underground bands
screaming to recover
fighting with eachother
crying for another chapter
looking hangover
saying this is forever
telling me i'm your wildflower
flirting with girls
taking me for granteds
making me a new notch in your belts
running to last trains
making dins
laughing our grins
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 1:01 PM UTC
As I lay on my bed I feared the blankets would suffocate me. I swallowed hard and the saliva almost choked me. My nostrils burnt as I laboured to breath, the chest like an IUD about to explored in heavey breath. I gasp, opened my mouth, as dry a bones of chelbi. My hands fell beside me, my eyes pooped out of their socket, blood shot.
Dread fell on me like the morning dew, hard unexpected and thoroughly cold. My ears heard dins, silent sounds of death.
I knew it was back, having taken its last harvest, it roamed around as it looked through its list. A cold sweat broke out a silent grunt heard, a scuffle in a meadow, and a body drop as the grim, collect its latest prize.
Morning was greeted with mourning as a son of the soil, hit down and ate the dust.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
It was a day without rain.
But the clouds?
Well, they will always be
be there,
reminding us not to look
up, I suppose.
It was a day without wind.
Flags redundant posturing
whispered final obscenities
prior to a sentence of
superfluousness.
It was a day without fear.
Dins of the past echoed,
what was, a forgotten silence.
Only, a day after yesterday.
Yet, it arrived with all the
amnesia, of the one, before!
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
Beseeching now the sonic heavens
Seeking for accord to find
The clashing titan symphonies
That prove their muse is most divine
Unto my mind's tranquility
She whispers of the ocean's roar
As Aphrodite tickles toes
The nereids lovely voices soar
Above the selfish dins and sins
A wispy dragon's spirit flies
Azure scales bejewel the breeze
In prisms of translucent skies
Arisen humanist condition
My surrealist exhibition
Abstract art asceticism
This is my Elysian vision
Timeless in a Gilded Age
Where all may dream of being free
To Helios I offer peace
And sacrifice the Ares me
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC