The human sacrifices begin at noon. I must hurry to prepare the ruins.

Good: The pyramids retain their purity of line; the hieroglyphs balance out the skulls, more or less. Let us say, oh, two to one.

A Diego Rivera mural stretches from wall to wall of the Mayan ball court. (Are those blues really from nature?)

Heads will roll! I predict.

I need more coffee — any style. Bring me the big, steaming bowls of France that you must slurp two-handedly. Bring me the tiny espresso shots of Italy, bitter and inadequate, always calling for another cup.

Bring me café in an ornamental Mexican jar painted in bright ochres and reds. Set it on a geometrically designed serape with just a hint of purple on the fringe.

I will sop up the last drop of caffeine with my tortilla, while dining room tables multiply like serpents.

I must hurry. The sacrifices begin at noon.

Already, the humidity clings to my skin like a cheap cologne.

How stupid of me not to have worn a white linen suit, huaraches, and a Panama hat  (straw, of course).

In any case, I am the expert. My art criticism begins now.

Rivera’s human figures roll in a wave of revolutionary fervor: too rounded, too cherubic, too pastel. Industry, agriculture, fraternity, socialism. Hand me the hammer. But no bare *******, as in Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People.

A careless oversight. ****** always adds a pleasant focal point to a painting.

Suddenly, bad news breaks. The sacrifices have been called off; the ballplayers  have converted to Communism. Viva la revolución!

                                                 + + +

Frida Kahlo twirls her mustache to match the flair of Salvador Dali’s.

Her heart flutters for the Spanish surrealist, who has bug-eyes only for Gala.

Kahlo deigns to paint his portrait, which turns out to be another of her
 self-portraits. So many selves. So many portraits.

This one sports ample ****** hair and a monkey on her shoulder, who leans across to eat the gardenia behind her right ear. Or is it a carnation? Ah, carnations only calcify into clichés. Let us call it a hibiscus, and be done with it.

(Still, are those lurid colors from nature?)

I must hurry. The exhibition will begin at 2 a.m., the hour when all the wine shops close, and the retablos disappear from the churches. No respect for authority after la revolución. Only the self, the self. Always the self.

Kahlo twists her mustache into a braid for her next self-portrait: Liberty Leading the Mexican People. She squeezes into an orthopedic corset, bare-breasted.

I pull out my droopy Dali watch to eye the time. The hands cross at midnight.

I must hurry. Yet Kahlo insists I sit.

She paints my portrait with a spike through my spine, a shattered pelvis, and partial paralysis of the legs. I can no longer walk a straight line.

She thinks I am she, in trousers. The self, the self. Always the self.

My moustache grows heavier than hers, however, and I painstakingly pluck out the unibrow.

But I adore her monkey, with his close-set eyes. He eats a carnation for penance each morning, then primps before the mirror. The self, the self. The primate self.

More bad news: Dali cancels the exhibition. He has been demoralized by the retablos, which radiate beauty in six dimensions: height, breadth, length and the omnipresence of the Holy Trinity.

A genuine milagro: The streets fill with gardenias and hibiscus. The Mayan ballplayers convert to Catholicism.

A white skeleton dances with Kahlo in the moonlight. He wears her leather-and-steel braces.

No matter. I am the art critic, and I declare all Mexican colors indigenous, naturalistic, and caffeinated. Then I turn out the dining room lights.

A starry, starry night. The humidity sinks into the cenote.

Tomorrow, I shall buy a monkey and teach it to paint. All colors from nature, of course.

“find a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic”

she does, Frida
she does.
she looks at me like I am Galileo
and I have mapped the stars just for her;
she has never been more right.

I have spent countless hours
charting the constellations in her eyes,
in the way she drinks her coffee,
in the sound of her breathing when she’s fallen asleep beside me.

when the room grows still,
I kiss the night sky’s secrets into the palms of her hands,
and know that they are safe.

I am so lucky to love her, Frida.
I am so lucky she sees the light in all my dark
and chooses to stay.

Love is like a Frida Kahlo painting
It doesn’t make sense
It’s a bit absurd
Vibrant, definitely
And leaves you wanting more
Older than ourselves
Yet with a spirit younger than anything else

to sleep i may, but not the dark vessel
of mine eyes, over stormy seas of placenta and albatross
tossed from the palm of  a rough hewn, Five-Headed Crane
raking five beaks across a canvass of my wounded fires -
and my brazen black honey, trembling on the lip
of mis-fortunate birth...,
in the cataract of
a fine hat
on a fat
rebel.

my public spaces engineered
to come from the inside

the wastelands are beautiful

as you gawk
at the red
sun

a bead of red plasma,
flowing from an
open vein

in a mind shaft.

with a bad back
and no front.

but a lasting gasp....

Dar Al-Hekma University hosted its second fashion show on Sunday that featured the work of its second batch of fashion design undergraduates.

The event, titled “Luminosity” was held under the auspices of Princess Reem **** Muhammad Al-Faisal. President of the university Dr. Suhair Hassan Al-Qurashi said: “Providing such events to our students before graduation exposes them to industry leaders of their prospective industries and gives them a head start in their careers.

“Dar Al-Hekma University’s students stand out because of the combination of their high caliber and the opportunities the university provides for them.”

Along with industry leaders, families of participating students attended. The event started with an opening speech by the department chair for the fashion design program Dina Kattan, who then introduced the sophomore and junior students’ work.

Afterward, models wearing three-piece collection garments designed by senior students scheduled to graduate this year took the stage and were graded by four judges.

Kattan said: “I am so proud of the work my students presented today; they worked really hard and they deserve a big hand. “Everyone was impressed with the level of creativity and attention to detail they demonstrated.”

The judges were Batool Jamjoom, businesswoman in the fashion industry and manager and owner of Jamjoom Fashion House; Amra Alabdalilsharif, director of the innovation and visual merchandising department at Rubaiyyat; Dalal Al-Hasan, a fashion designer; and Aram Kabbani, Dar Al-Hekma alumna and fashion stylist.

The grades students received during the fashion show will form part of their final grade. One of the students whose designs were featured at the show, Zahar Algain, said her collection was inspired by Mexican artist Frida Kahlo.

“Studying fashion has altered my perspective. I view fashion, in the same way that I view life; it’s a matter of balance and proportions.

“My interest in avant-garde fashion has led me to believe in using creativity to solve difficult situations. Algain’s collection was meant to blur the line between art and fashion.

“It is inspired by Frida Kahlo but with a fictional twist. “The story behind my collection is a daydream, a magical love story, an artwork; it is splattered with Frida’s colorful soul and spirit.”

Following this women only event, Dar Al-Hekma is organizing a one-day fashion design exhibition on Tuesday, which is open to all. The event starts from 7 p.m.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

You tell me that I am young
That life has merely licked me, not stung
That I do not understand, that I have not yet lived
Enough to grasp the substance

I have known disease
Slow tears, muted pleas
Pain that nothing could appease
I have known the smell of hospitals for summers
The beeping and slurping of machine in massive numbers

I have spoken to voiceless loved ones,
Loved ones with teethless mouths and twisted tongues
Distorted jaws and wheezing lungs.
We have spoken with little green charts
And broken hearts
From the inability to connect the mouth to the thoughts in the head
And I left without understanding,
What they had said
Because I eventually had to let it go
(I still don't know)

I have spent countless summer nights
In nature’s garb, floating silently in a river
So warm that my limbs, skimming the surface, didn't shiver
Under a clear sky, the stars like paradisiac lights
Without anyone ever finding out
About these wild and primal escapades

I've drank, I've smoked
I have burned my throat
With coarse lemon gin
Until I could no longer feel my skin.

I have been frightened
Yes I have felt fear, like a noose around my throat being tightened
Like a gruesome black crow, perched on my shoulder
I have often awoken affright at night,
Longing, praying, for the morning light
I have felt fear, wild, fierce and turbulent fear
More than anyone will everyone will ever know
By men, by life, by myself
Desolate under the sheets, like a forsaken toy
All by myself

I have seen Paris in the rain
Traveled the French countryside by train
I've woken up to New York window views
And seen New Orleans afternoons, filled with heat and blues.
I've swam the Mexican Baja waters, turquoise and clear
With snakes as sharp as spears

I have known humiliation
Causing my cheeks to turn carnation
A spoon, emptying my insides out
Like a gourd

I have loved
I have known the aching pain of a swelled heart
And the way it can tear you apart
I have gushed torrents upon my pillows and sleeves
Tears running down my chin like guilty thieves
From a lit-up house

I have known death, and grief
The meaning of "never"
Whimpering in the school bathroom
And cold, lonely nights

I have seen the works of Van Gogh, Mondrian, and Miro,
Modigliani, Cezanne, and Frida Kahlo
Of Monet, Gauguin, Matisse, Magritte, and Picasso
I have wandered through hallways of masterpieces
Holding tight to my grandmother's hand
And I have wept shamelessly for joy
Before Degas's La classe de danse

I have been diagnosed
I have undergone computer programs designed to shift my brain, to better it
To get me to be normal, to submit
I have had brain-altering medicine shoved down my throat,
Like stuffing a goose,
To make my brain run a little less loose
And I have submitted and gotten use to my brain being altered.

I have had kisses that were mere trifles
Frivolous, yet fierce and acute like shots from a rifle
Lips of mere flesh, not sweet godly nectar
And gazes that meant everything
That seemed to connect with an invisible yet indestructible string
Iris like distant galaxies and pupils twinkling like black jewels
Eyes that seemed enkindled by some ethereal fuel
Speaking of emotions far too secluded, cryptic and cluttered
To be worded and uttered

I know the way in which violence resides
Not in commotion, brusqueness, nor physical harm
But in silence
In the time that covers pain and secrets
In the slow impossibility of trust
In the way that some secrets become inconceivable to tell, time has so covered them in rust
In that dull, dismal ache
In all that is doomed to remain forever opaque.

I have read, for pleasure,
The works of Balzac, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, and Voltaire
Of Bobin, Gaude, and Baudelaire
Of Flaubert, Hemingway
and good old Bradbury, Ray
Émile Zola,  Primo Levi
Moliere, Rousseau, and Bukowski
I have read, and loved, and understood

I have known insomnia
The way a beach knows the tides
Sleepless nights of convulsive, feverish panic, of clutching my sides,
Of silent hysteria and salty terror.
I know what happens at night, when sweet slumber seems so far away
The worries and woes seem to multiply and swell in hopeless disarray
My lips grow pale, my eye grow sunken
As a time ticks by, tomorrow darkens




I have witnessed horror
In the form of a blue body bag
Being rolled out with a squeaking drag
By two yellow-vested men
With apologetic eyes
That seemed to say "Oh god
We're so sorry you had to see that
Please, please
Go home
And try to forget"

But you are right
I am still just a child
Naive, innocent, and pure
I have known nothing dark or obscure
I have not yet lived.

Calico Beauty,
Without human effort
you win roars of cherish.
lifting not a gloved finger
you give us what we need.
you are soft-nuzzle tentative:
a humble pad-pad-pad
when it longs to be heard.
all softness in your shrinking night-sky back.
my hand searches for the cold baby-down
and
you are sweetly out of reach.
how sweet
indeed.
Dali’s very own
you take your ocelot pride
with surreal stillness
on a pedestal that is not yours.
and sometimes
you rest in foggy caution
and I steal
a close moment.
but too close!
your headlights flash
and you swim away.
I have not the cruelty to pursue you.

Waiting for your night stories,
instead, empty glasses dancing. 
Kahlo paints for me, surreal dreams.

I dreamed of Frida Kahlo
"yo era ella amante"
pure, paupered prince to her primal queen
yet still I hollowed a carnal niche into the midst
of one perdurable, lurid " noche de los muertos"
and fingered the lachrymose from her lacerations
counting prurient  time in a piercing nine of
perennial persecution before I wore her pelt
to lay me down in her sanguinary glow

1) When her boyfriend sticks his tongue down your throat, do not kiss back. Push him away, then swallow down the bile that's threatening to spill out of your soft lips. Take off, run, and never look back. Some boys like to play dangerous games; but darling, you are not a toy.

2) The boy next door with the tanned skin and earthy brown eyes will whisper beautiful things to you. Sad things, loving things, things that will make the blood rush to your cheeks in raging streams. Don't believe the words that tumble out of his mouth baby; most people never really mean what they say. But that's life, and it'll be okay.

3) Be strong, be bold, be unafraid of the world and all the people in it. Always, always speak your mind and pounce to action when injustice creeps up on you. Challenge him when he questions you, hurl facts and opinions like darts until he recedes with shame. Whenever you feel rage and anger spreading like wildfire through your heart, speak up. Your words matter. You matter.

4) You are beautiful. You have always been beautiful, and you need to believe that you are. Even if the magazines don't appreciate your wide hips or your glowing brown skin; dark and soft like honey, learn how to love yourself. This body is the only home you'll have in this lifetime, so my darling, learn how to embrace every scar, freckle and mole. You are made out of the same atoms that formed Frida Kahlo and Picasso. You are art and you need to have faith in that.

5) It's okay to eat dinner on your own. Or lunch. Or breakfast for that matter. There is no shame in solitude. Go to a quaint cafe; and observe the sights and sounds around you. Take note of the smell of fresh coffee hanging hot and heavy in the air. You are by yourself and free to be who you really are.  It is a lovely feeling. Revel in it, my love. When you finally leave, you will realize that you've just learned how to be okay on your own.

6) If someday you wake up and start to see the world in greys, please, please come to me first. I will hold you and we'll take a long drive to nowhere with your favourite mix-tape playing in the car. I will remind you that the only way out is through, and that the demons in your mind are most definitely not stronger than you. I will tell you how much this world needs you so it can heal, how staying alive is a much better deal. I will tell you that I love you, then kiss your forehead, and promise to do everything I can, until your universe stops playing out in shades of blue.

I walked up to the pearly gates
and rang the golden bell
Saint Peter popped his
head out and he gave a hearty yell

He said 'what are you doing here
you're supposed to be alive?'
I said 'I blew my brains out
with a magnum 45'

'In that case I can't let you in'
Saint Peter sadly said
'You've got to take the
dark road to that other place instead'

I thanked him for his kindness
and he sent me on my way
I turned onto that evil road
and slowly walked away

The path was long and winding
and the scenery was bare
It reminded me of Kansas
when Dorothy lived there

I seemed to walk for hours
but it could have been much more
Then up ahead I saw a light
behind a wooden door

A man appeared quite suddenly
from where, I do not know
He said 'my name is Lucifer
but you can call me Joe'

He led me to the wooden door
and gave a mighty shove
The thing swung open slowly
and a light shone from above

To my surprise I did not see
the brimstone, flame or tar
Just a band of really happy folks
all drinking at a bar

Virginia Woolf and Hemingway
were sitting with Van Gogh
While Kurt Cobain was sipping wine
with Magdalene Kahlo

And Lenny Bruce was telling jokes
that made Cleopatra blush
And Hunter T. wrote frantically
As always, in a rush

Old Joe he only grinned at me
and slapped me on the back
'You didn't really think that
I would torture Kerouac?'

He called out to the bartender
and soon I had a brew
'I must admit" I said to him
before my beer was through

‘I expected something different
in the land of pain and dread'
Old Joe gave me a wicked smile
and this is what he said:

'Take a look around you son
and tell me what you see'
I saw ten thousand people
not including Joe and me

And suddenly it hit me like a
bolt out of the blue
'All these people left the world
before their time was due'

Joe finished up his bottle and
he tossed it in the sand
He said 'son every one of them
has died by their own hand

You see they lived their Hell on earth
on that you can't deny
They know what pain is really like
so I don't even try'

So friends I am still sitting here
it's been a year or so
Tomorrow night I've got a date
with Marilyn Monroe

We're going to see Hendrix
at the Fillmore down below
And the word is Janis Joplin
will be opening the show

And I don't believe that Heaven
could exact a higher praise
They can keep their harps and
trumpets...

I prefer my Purple Haze

Inspired by Judy Blume,  inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (https://alissagrams.wordpress.com/2017/03/06/an-open-letter-to-god-from-an-eighteen-year-old-girl/)

~

God,
it's me--
jade.

I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).

I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?

I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.

Coincidentally,
as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****,
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.


God,
you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.

Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?

Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?

(I know you have).

Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?

God,
has anyone ever broken your heart?

(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).

So I guess my real question is
why?
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).

Truly,
I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.

You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?

(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).

god,
I do not think
I believe in you.

At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.

I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.

I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.

I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Ophelia.
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.

(With her,
I shall share a name).

I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.

god,
it's me--
Jade;
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).

La Llorona

(ce poéme écrit après avoir écouté la chanson est
dédié à Frida Kahlo et à Joan Baez)

Sur les remparts de Tenochtitlan
tu ne sors qu'à la nuit couchante
les nuits ou la lune est orange tourne
rouge de sang et d'amertume.
Tu fais briller ta chevelure
de geai, tel un diamant noir,
ton nom est "Llorona la belle"
qui nous appelle de ses pleurs.
Et tente de nous attirer
Avec sa voix rauque et ses pleurs.

Tu annonces la venue de ceux
par qui la mort doit advenir.
Car telle est ta prophétie
magicienne, du Monde Indien.
Surtout passant, ferme les yeux
et retiens ton amour naissant
car la Llorona ne vient pas
pour te serrer dans ses bras
et te donner sa douce peau,
Ni te couvrir de baisers.

Elle se fait messagère de malheur.
Et annonce les temps nouveaux
D’où surgiront les hommes barbus, bardés de fer
avec ces animaux fabuleux
Et leur bâton de foudre et de tonnerre
qui tuent mieux que la guerre fleurie.
Son chant est hymne funèbre
ou la prophétie s'accomplit
dans les cliquetis d’acier,
la maudite soif de l’or
et le feu des bûchers.

Garde toi de suivre « la pleureuse »
qui t'annonce les jours maudits,
ou le sang indien va couler
et le Peuple être mis en servage.
Loran ta beauté est venin
cartes présages sont les flèches
que nous lancent les "temps nouveaux".
Pleurons, tous, notre liberté
et les jours de cendre venus,
et la chute des Dieux serpents.

Paul Arrighi, Toulouse

She had a Frida Kahlo look,
an honest beauty,
and too much innocence for anyone with half a history.

With streaks of ore in her tangled hair,
and gold paint brush flicks in the geography of her eyes,
She was a miner's delight, Oro Fino.

There is nothing more attractive than a hardworking man,
except when they resemble hoarding dragons.
Their fiery passions, searing.

There is nothing more tragic than asphyxiation,
either from the dense, smoky fumes
or in the hands of a thick-lipped Moor.

You're special. All my life I considered myself to be a multicolored iridescent stroke of art in this world of pastels shades and fine lines. I knew right from the start that I wasn't a masterpiece presented by Picasso or Kahlo. I was a pretty splotch of sunny hues and velvety blues cleverly spilled over the black canvas.
To find me beautiful, it required a keen eye that was ready to overlook the dainty presentation of the works of Van Gogh. There exists a story of pain and insanity behind each work of his creativity. I am and will always be the scribbled I ink across the sheet. There is a piece of poetry within me, for the person who is patient enough to look through my messy facade. And to pick up the pen and write a sonnet across my heart.
Even with the multicolored spots I bleed the words of love and loss. The two most basic emotions that are often left unexplored.
My soul hummed the old school love songs that no one could ever recognize. Until the day I met you. Even in a room full of exquisite wonders you chose me. You whispered the lyrics to my favorite song and left me spellbound. With a lopsided smile you held out your hand and asked me for a dance, without any conscious effort I floated and there I was; held securely in the arms of the man who owns my heart.

When she was 6,
Her wildest dream was to be an astronaut.
Her mom always told her to reach for the stars,
To dream bigger than life
Because she can be anything she wanted to be as long as she was happy.
When she went to her first day of grade school,
The teacher asked the kids to introduce themselves -
Name, age, and goal in life-
And when they flowed out of her mouth like a waterfall,
Spilling into the air with no way of turning back,
The boys giggled and told her that,
"Girls can't be that! That's a guys' job!"
The teacher made no effort to scold them,
Only telling her to ignore their constant teasing
And keep her ambitions to herself because
"Girls can't do that."
When she left that idea behind on the sidewalk of broken dreams,
A wall rose up from the ground
And caged her heart.
She found a haven in art,
Choosing to drown herself in an assortment of paints and oils.
She created beauty from an abyss of "No-you-can'ts" and "you're-a-girl-so-you-cant-do-thats"
But she still hesitated to show her talent to the world,
Wondered why boys always brought up the fact that most of the successful artists were men.
Everything they always told her kept ringing in her ears,
Like how alarms always sound and you can't ever get it out of your head.
She found a demon in her haven,
Found out that sometimes even the most beautiful things can have a dark side
Like how the moon always has a face not illuminated by the sun,
And she forgot how to create beauty.
When she lost all her inspiration to dream big,
To create art,
She cried to her mother,
Tried to find her 6-year-old self in the arms of her creator.
"We age like trees,
Have layers like an onion,
And every time you grow,
We add another ring to our skin.
Peel back the layers and you'll find your inner 6-year-old,
Young and restless
With eyes full of love for life.
Peel the skin back even more,
Like how a hangnail stands out next to your nail,
And peel it back even though it hurts and it bleeds crimson and smells like iron.
We're all aged and different,
All of different genders,
But don't ever be ashamed of being a girl,"
Is what her mother would tell her,
And she'd continue with,
"Don't ever let anyone tell you that being a girl,
A woman,
Is something to be ashamed of.
Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't do what you want
Simply because you have physical differences.
Babies come from the womb of women,
Children nestle into their mother's ******* when they fall asleep,
Mothers of all creatures care for their young ones until they're fully grown,
So don't ever think that women can't do anything,
Because they can.
Baby, the first woman to ever be in space was a Russian named Valentina,
A word that stood for brave.
I didn't name you brave,
But you could be an astronaut if you wanted to.
Frida Kahlo was a famous artist,
And her name stood for beauty,
But, baby, if you wanted to, you could piece the world together with your bare hands.
My mother, your grandmother,
Her name stood for queen,
And she was the best thing I've ever seen walk on this planet.
My grandmother stood boldly next to her loved one's casket,
And she shed not one tear,
So tell me why it's a burden to be a girl."
When she was 6,
She wanted to be everything she could be,
But everyone always put her down for being a girl.
The insult of being a woman still rung in her ears even now,
A decade older,
Ten years wiser,
More rings embedded in her skin.
It still stung,
Like wounds being opened again only to flush it down with alcohol trying to make the pain go away,
She still heard them curse at her for being a girl,
A full grown woman now,
And she'll still cry like she did before,
Crying to find her inner 6-year-old,
Young and innocent
With dreams of gold,
And she'll peel back her layers,
Taking longer than before,
But always going back to the roots that being a girl isn't all that bad.
She's older now,
With frown lines on her face instead of wrinkles crinkling around her smile,
And all she could dream about is
Rewinding time
And being a 6-year-old girl again

It is you whom I love today. I love you with all my loves.*
Frida Kahlo

screaming gold and exulting light
I betrayed the sunset today
still life without promises the city
there comes that tone again
in the storehouses of flesh
where life dreams itself
you’ve colonized me
with hate and desire
unstable tempo
my eyes blind
like a storm without wind
I disfigured some light today
its unpretended beauty
no paradox
not even a surprise
I fall for these wounds, your burden
the taste of failure
the panic of not knowing
the trembling of your feet
no need for signifying something
for an ending or a touch
there is love without desire
desire without love
you can call me crazy
if this is all
you can say
at the end of the day

This note is to you.
The you with swollen eyes,
the you with mascara dripped tears,
the you who has had a bad day,
the you who hasn't slept peacefully for nights,
the you who has lost hope.

I have read about Frida Kahlo and Helen Keller.
I have read the stories of these fierce women.
I don't know them, I've never met them.
But I've known you and met you,
And you are my hero.

Strong and unapologetic.
At the same time, elegant and true.

Don't you let anyone or anything
****** that title away from you.


Sayali

Decent—
I hate that word.
My mother wants me to be decent
when all I really want to be,
what I actually am,
is loud,
color,
all mouth,
leather skirts,
and hoop earrings,
(an ode to the roundness of the sun)
nails in deep, dark red,
banging doors,
and laughing in all the wrong places.
She wants decent,
she means 'quiet'.
She means 'not anyone'.
She means 'forgettable'.
She means 'the kind you take home to momma'.
But, see—
I'm a Warhol pop art,
Kahlo brows,
that mouth in the Munch in a constant 'o',
the kind to put herself in an oven
and call it a day,
shirts cropped to their full potential,
belly button to the light,
black line drawn like a cat's,
maybe a little cherry on the lips
(the kind to kiss boys sweeter, dear).

But, okay, I love you—
and I will put on the heirloom pieces.
Just for tonight.

When I uproot the hairs sprouting from the glabella
and strip my cupid’s bow of its wildflowers,
Frida Kahlo writhes in her grave.

She haunts me.

“You are beautiful.”
[unibrow and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[moustache and all]

“You are beautiful.”
[sadness and all]

The summer breezed in Kraków field,
The fresh air that lingers in my hair
Watching the nuthatches safely arrived in their bield,
While we are holding our hands sitting on the chair.

At night, we were stargazing
You said, "what a starry night",
Like van Gogh's painting is so amazing
That I light up your world without your sight.

Then, You smiled back at me like how Mona Lisa smiled,
It gives me an impression
And that night my world become wild
I knew that You are my dedication and inspiration.

I need a love that grows
That your sweet and tenderness in my veins flows.

Last time, I made pączki for your birthday,
You're so vivacious
Oh dear, a week is not enough to see you everyday
Your love is contagious

We went to the beach for a night,
That day, You and I collide
You will be forever my knight
Please stay by my side.
Fifth of November, you dressed up like van Gogh,
I stared at you like how Frida kahlo fierce,
Honey, I want you to stay by my side everywhere I go.
I love for a thousand years,


I can't stop thinking 'bout your face,
You can never be replaced.

Our relationship has different strokes,
As I painted our love story in Tatra mountain,
Here, under the oaks,
Dear, No one could ever erase you in my memory nor stain,

Were at the terraces, spending my christmas with you,
The smell of potato pancakes are so nostalgic,
And also the spices that is in the barbecue,
Spending holiday with you is so romantic,

Before the year ends,
We waited to power up the fireworks,
moja miłość, we are more than just friends,
And that's how our love works.

How lovely and amazing,
Now, I'm just reminiscing.

bee da fee da fee deedledee
feel boo dumb da fee fee fee
see what you want and hear what you see
you'll find you're picking from a cherry tree
ickie fickle pickle picker tickle chuckle lemon pucker
naps and cuddles and jumping in puddles
playin on the fiddle I'm a monkey in the middle

Ponyo Kahlo
Siddle Widdle Cookie Wookster
Queen Maddie Schizofranny
Victor Victor Jackie Jackie
meowy meowy meow!

We were heading to the aurora borealis with tic-tacs in our pockets and mossy footprints in our pasts,
I was finding wrinkles on your face and tucking them under your pillow cases,
Filling up on cherry vanilla coke and you,
Laughing at your jokes, but breathing for your laughs.
Goodbyes became “see you soon”, but we regressed faster than we reached the bases,
I was left asking my heart where you went and all I received was,
“Come again later” or “Maybe next time” like a monotonous 8 ball.
I checked for Pabst Blue and trophies, but I got acquainted with the empty cases.
You always told me not to get my hopes up, to keep the ends of my strings clean.
You heeded a warning as if you had an expiration date,
But I think I forgot to listen for bombs ticking over the sound of heartbeats.
They always told me that if it comes in like a lion, it goes out like a lamb.
Well, if that was true then why did you set my life on fire, treated me like Diego Rivera,
Like Frieda Kahlo, this love hit me like a tram.
Can you really violate a person’s privacy,
Once they’ve pushed you naked, into a crowd?
Because finding your diary yesterday was bittersweet, but the only sugar was reading it aloud.
“I’m coming home, but instead of doorbells to signal return, the singing of her pulse is my only melody.
The only thing to resemble a welcome sign was your hair dripping on your chest.
My only blankets were your nimble hands and your hollow breaths,
My favorite song is a compilation of every word you’ve said to me.”
But now you’re hosting tea parties, but you’re sipping chardonnay,
No recollection of my address because you’re occupied by your high-class party,
Spending hours upon hours discussing La Primavera,
When you’ve not listened to classical music in over a decade.
Now I’m left wondering what song rattled in the back of your head when you sped off in a high-speed chase.
I could tell you who won, but again,
Don’t think I can keep up with your pace.
It doesn’t matter much now that I didn’t love you like a happy ending,
Nor did we resemble a love song,
But our love was like traffic signs: cautious yet reassuring.
It was like avoiding cracks in the side-walk, without any rhyme or reason.
But it turns out; humans are not able to see all on-coming traffic,
Swerving away from an on-coming object is no longer effective once you’ve hit it like a brick wall.
You filled my head with pages of filler paper, allowing me to scratch the surface,
Never truly knowing you, claiming, “It’s easy, it’s simple like this”.
I never knew simplicity to hurt like hell.
Now you’re hosting tea parties,
But you’re chugging the last of the Rose,
Being with you was like La Primavera,
It has been excessively over-played.

Can artist's be beautiful, Frida Kahlo?
Can we be glorified not for our duty
as angelos, but for our
physicality?
Our fierce thighs
and not our mood swings, Lou Reed?
Painted canvas', strumming guitar strings
Prettified under the neon fixtures
We are more like the trench-coat souls
slipping away with tobacco pipes into
the night,
not golden, but starry-eyed off of laudanum potions
Is that simplistic Jack Kerouac?
To be dignified in wine stained ramblings
too large for one to comprehend alone
In snapshots or albums of Led Zeppelin

Did we curse the false idols while lacking sincerity?

Because we are only human beings and can't reach that state
No Buddha's have I gazed the face of in
hostels or busy streets,
neither in dens or marble coves
Saturated in meaning but an image
that dies in the dark
Is it ugly to find the fountain of immortality?
To have lived as a martyr
No one celebrated Van Gogh or
understood mania
It's in our nature to breathe meaning
into something spectral
some nothing you cant kiss on the mouth

I know your frustration
your choked isolation
a damaged bird
whose feathers - cut n' clipped
a fractured body constrained a wild living soul
sliced n' pierced, stripped to the chore,
heavy you display emotions so raw ....
you fought hard, cried hard, raged ! & loved.
with acceptance as your friend eventually fate found its way.
Serenity pulled you through
beautiful spirit, compassionate & brave
at such a young age you went to your grave.

Inspirational lady - my teacher, mentor & guru

Frida Kahlo

They look at me
And they see a blank face.
They see a mind like a blank slate
Ready to be written on
In permanent marker.
They don’t see someone else’s writing
Already there
In perfect cursive script.

You see, people don’t talk to me.
Whether its because my lips
Are normally sewn shut with my own heartstrings
Or because when I talk its a jumbled mess
Of nonsense about aliens and feminist politics
I don’t know.

You see, I think a lot.
I am chock full of socialist propaganda
And love songs about front teeth.
Arrow heads of conversation starters that
Never make it past my lips.
Memory disks with scratches that distort the image.
Sock drawers overflowing with symbolic syllables and similes.

I think about the fist sized holes in living room walls
And the love notes hidden inside.
The songs sung in lieu of apology.

I think about my teeth cracking on
The dentist’s wedding ring.
The opening and closing of the storm door and my mother
Saying “good god we need to get that thing fixed”.
Fainting in the shower.
The angry purple bruise that blossomed
Like jasmine on my arm the next day.

I think about my bones
Cracking like wooden wind chimes slamming together.
Wishbone hearts being snapped in two.
Eating nothing but salt and razor blades.
Stomach acid tearing through everything and anything.
The alleys between my teeth.
The hornets locked inside my mouth
Stinging my gums.

I think about Allen Ginsberg tasting his first sin,
Sylvia Plath kissing her children’s foreheads,
And Maya Angelou speaking again.
I think about Anne Sexton
Tipping the bottle back
And Frida Kahlo falling in love with herself.
I think about the poems being
Forced fed to me and
I don’t mind at all.

You see I think a lot.
Questions like wasps swarming, swarming, swarming
Around my skull like a hive.
You see this is unexpected.
A mute girl isn’t supposed to think so much.
A mute girl is supposed to listen
What will happen to me if I don’t listen?
Another question to add to the list.
You see I am not a blank slate.
I am a tattoo parlor wall
And a message board.
An online forum.
A dream journal washing up on a Jersey shore beach.
You see I am not clay.
I’m not even marble.
I am art in its purest form.
Untampered and untouched.

how many times have I compared you to a wonderful piece of art?
your veins, your angles, your eyes, they all lead to your heart.
your face is worthy of a cathedral’s ceiling,
but I can’t compare it to what I’m feeling.
I scream to the heavens that they need to close the gate.
what’s the point of waiting in line when heaven is your touch, and it feels so great.
your eyes are the Monet that was never hung up.
the way they blend together from far away, but up close I get so strung up,
trying to figure out how they blend together,
browns and golds and greens and yellows, I give up, whatever.
your smile is my favorite Van Gogh,
how your dimples glisten and your teeth glow.
I love when your lips twitch at the sight of something that makes you happy,
it can make even my worst days feel a bit less ******.
but there’s a bit of Frida Kahlo that you can’t contain
because in those Monet eyes of yours I also see pain.
and I hate when I see it but I also see your Sylvia Plath,
because when that smile disappears all I can see is wrath.
and after you laugh I hear your Emily Dickinson,
the silence that follows is your eternity prison.
but don’t get me wrong.
you aren’t just the primaries; red, yellow, and blue.
the gallery dedicated to you is long overdue.
because what I see in those eyes of yours
is that pain isn’t something you’ve yet to give in to.
and I know the world in itself is a huge piece of art.
but the only painting I’m looking at is you.