Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
10.1k · Nov 2014
Sept. Sunday
Yellow Boots Nov 2014
I would be sad,
but not on a Sunday.
Sundays are
for making lists
of rhetorical questions
of why you don't love me
and watching movies
with friends
with smelly feet
and baking potatoes
for hours
and sharing random facts
about plants, black and white
movies; cats.
Black ink on white paper.
Mondays are
for reading lists.
5.0k · Mar 2015
Spring cleaning
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
there's novelty in that orange juice
freshly squeezed, freshly toasted
flaxseed bread
butter, just at the right temperature
not too hard to spread, not too liquidy
as to stain pajama pants
fresh mulberries that Rita bought
on a day we were rich
fresh oatmeal with pumpkin jam
crispy spinach, eggs
all so colorfully devoid of haste
perfumed breeze on the balcony
anew, all fresh !
5.0k · Mar 2015
quote master for hire
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Famous poet of death and promiscuous love
offers witty captions for your selfies
suits all styles and targets
social network friendly
specialised in b & w & shades of Grey
accessible pricing, genuine callers only
4.2k · Nov 2014
Her
Yellow Boots Nov 2014
Her
Stupor belongs to that face,
dimples are for embarrassment
the bottom ones,
surrounding your lips,
throwing head to the side,
might as well stomp your feet
for I know what it means,
I know it dear.
3.9k · Aug 2014
İstanbul
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Down in Beyoğlu
killing fish, time and pastels

Down in Bebek
your hands smothering flowers,
your sweat


Up on Galata tower
drummers on the roof,
here bombs won't reach

Up in Taksim
arsenic tastes sweet
on our salty cheeks


Along down the Bosphorus
all memories of me buried deep
for river snakes to nibble on_

Finally,
we fled.
3.4k · Aug 2014
Eulogy #1 for smoking
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Always listen to music
at the most inappropriate hours,
sing in bed and at the table
to honor the loveliest, perfect fools.
Never quit smoking
to avoid that terrible cough you warned me about, Nara,
at the hospital, veins
stitched together with paper clips.

Still and calm, cold, merry,
didn’t you need me to tell you
that grandpa’s been smoking
(do you remember that time,
sawdust caught fire
outside, in the workshop, us
sculpting african masks?),
that daddy’s been smoking,
that sister’s been smoking.

In the backyard you found one,
gone,
head flowing on the pavement
like cherries;
in his room you found the other,
reversed in cigarette-stained curtains,
orange juice flowing on the carpet
like a mother’s love.
How good of a cook you were
for that last supper that came late!
To go by bike dangerously,
buy fried fish and those swamp courgettes
unequalled and too urgent
even to touch the plates.
To badly sing chords in the
living room, in the long-gone
house by the sea, you
don’t need me anymore.
How good of a charleston was yours,
me mere copy, me spawn of forlorn saints
programming channels on your TV, you
don’t need me anymore.

Lady of mushrooms and candy,
of crystal glasses and tricot
and ***** jokes “where the sun doesn’t shine”, you
pride of bribery, our pride
I can’t quit;
it is family tradition, after all.
2.9k · Nov 2014
danse macabre
Yellow Boots Nov 2014
Prose is out of fashion, huh ?
So I've heard.
We prefer glittery creatures of the night
over here,
teenage superheroes and treehouses of terror to
la danse macabre.
For Halloween I will dress up like a metaphor
the true undead on a moonless night
sharp canines lodged in place,
mutant paradoxes of rotten flesh,
a bite of singularity.
.. Meh.
2.7k · Aug 2014
Apple-eating Nov. Sunday
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
All rain but no thunder.
Left my ******* on the sidewalk.
Hot and humid and his lips, livid.
Sunday afternoon, chasing oblivion,
trashing clothes, where is your breast now ?
Is paradise ever far ?
Blue ink on receipt, oil on canvas of the poor,
windowlickers, four of spades, bone wrestlers
stop making yourself more interesting while
it's all fluid and forgotten, quiet
inside those lips, foggy streets, forbidden songs,
no thunder.
My ******* escorted by security services into a landfill.
Burning your hair with no art
a glass, driving, bruised arms.
Me tasting your absence
is like rain but no thunder.
2.6k · Mar 2015
of dogs, Jan. Sunday
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
whimsical union of intents
in this square, like stray dogs
looking for each other's owner
weaving machiavellian plans
(retrospectively already outdated,
though methodically reiterated)
nibbling on stale juicy bones
oozing bittersweet belonging,
undermining stable systems
of comfortable relentless solitude,
dozing off licking each other's noses
in the same ripe misty heaven
that's today's mock-up of a home.
2.3k · Dec 2014
Late ?
Yellow Boots Dec 2014
I'm not procrastinating
I'm just doing all the things
that don't need to be done
that I had never planned on doing
that will lead me to magical discoveries
and epiphanies and crazy stories to tell
to the children I don't want to have
2.3k · Aug 2014
BDSM is a candy
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Truth is my mistress' tongue
the fiery hair, the fierce eyes
the feisty lies, the sleight of hand
tied me to her carousel
filled in my bones
whistled.

Queen of the court and a corsair
hair dye stains, bed sheet knots
you my whip, my flag, my ship
tie me to your carousel
whisper tomorrow  
already hurts.

Martyr pain monger, come afloat
this is your refuge.
I shall miss you more
face down in mud,
broken wrists filing nails,
flies in your hair.

Nails bleed aurora's blood;
have you slept with her yet ?
1.7k · Apr 2015
substance, essence
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
It's when I write about you
that everything gets clear again,
the compass points North again,
I'm found when it's you I write about.
Silly, you, my last cigarette
that it's today, then it's tomorrow,
then it's never
(might denote substance abuse on my part,
lack of substance on yours,
plenty of essence, silly eyed you).
Your stubble-ness that never hurt
my skin, my drama queen attitude
that's so last year.
We've both grown, now
irony is free, a laughter
that wakes up the neighbors, mine,
your sobriety, sober shirts, sober posture;
you don't get my jokes anymore, do you?
Silly serious grown-up haircut,
stick my fingers up your nose,
teach you how to be stray and free again,
tell you all is good, I still love you
like an orphan a passer-by, you
so northerly cold, fierce, insecure, mask
behind which my golden silly one lies sad
unaware of substance, essence
caught on a leash that's his own free will.
1.5k · Nov 2015
Rainbow, family?
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
cadence is egypt
burning one more down, a thousand
neighbors stomping their youth restless
as trance music wine-making fiascos
taking the best of both worlds, leaving the rest
to figuring out, to peasants
in cities not worth bothering for
greenland will submerge them, hopefully
solar storms edit them
to new geographies of realness
and that welcome home won't be appealing
to narrow mindedness that got narrower
Rainbow is not my favorite color
1.5k · Aug 2014
Hanami
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
once a week, I fall in love.

seasonal variation applies.

still more often than
                I do the laundry.
1.4k · Nov 2015
Dirt under our fingernails
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
the dirt under our fingernails
the only treasure map we follow
circumnavigations
of whispers that start and end
on our backs being caressed
by strangers that hide
in the folds of history
1.4k · Oct 2015
It's your birthday today
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
It's your birthday today
all the yellow bridges I cross
with the hay stacks and the chopped wood
and the lady's dogs shepherding the calves
shrink the distance
between my goosebumps and your shivers
and the wisdom that you see will come.
1.4k · Aug 2014
Eulogy #2 says:
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
_ that I stole your brown boots, your sewing kit,
   your E.A. Poe book, your love letters
   because if Jesus Christ was crucified,
   not impaled, objects
   must matter to some extent.

_ that the Aviator had been smoking
   and you weren't warned
   because to *** a drag
   he'd flirt with the neighbor,
   which was ***** and a shame to witness.

_ that your mind-reading is done
   and dreams are just dreams now
   because if your sisterhood, triad of witches
   buried corpses under the house
   guess who will have to dig them out.

_ that the white BMW that made children cheer
   made the Südtiroler frown
   because if it was better when Mussolini was there
   dragging girls out to the fields,
   war crimes amount to lollypops.

_ that to Mother you left the crumbs
   and a pile of ungrateful spite
   because writing anonymous threats
   with that proper calligraphy of yours
   was the greatest, revolting success.

_ that the crystal glasses are mine
   a footnote on your will
   because to you I was the rebel one
   who lied and ran
   and hid, but made you laugh.

_ that I forgot the lights on downstairs
   one last time
   because hornets nested in the fireplace
   and after all hidden bottles were drank
   I burnt your memories to dust.
1.4k · Nov 2015
Ebony
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
Ebony
Risk or starvation
Frantic flight
Corollary drowsiness
Subversive damage
Apostrophe in motion
Between a torn, denied farewell
And the next place
You will call home.
1.4k · May 2015
Philosophy of the Wool
Yellow Boots May 2015
You asked me for two papers,
I smiled.
Through rotten teeth,
right after puberty,
you spat your doomed philosophy at us,
set desert bushes on fire
as the pink avalanche kept stirring.
You'd never seen the snow
or crossed a sea
but the stars that came in that night
like foreign dialects, unceremoniously
spelled out in grains of sand
shone on religiously
on your ****-hardened tongue.
The dunes forgave our sins
spun into dromedary wool.
Yellow Boots Dec 2014
Sul pavimento scheggiato
a piedi nudi
lo sguardo, timido e complice
arrossire dell'urgenza innocente
ti porgo la mano
una colonna sorregge chimere
castelli disegnati e gonne strette
con armonia d'intenti
sollevo la coscia
respira, rilassa
movimenti tondi e spaziosi
circumnavigare l'euforia
a cadenza ritmica
la forza di gravità diminuisce
quando è con te che danzo.
1.1k · May 2015
Toulouse, your veil
Yellow Boots May 2015
On my way out of failed attempts
stuck at a bus stop, this woman
scared of me
and my backpack full of crumbs.
Can your burka protect you
from red wine and cardboard signs,
can it protect me
from fast foods and the foreign invasion ?
Can we ride the bus together
out of this city of glue,
successfully conceal the boredom
of waiting through egoistic drivers' strikes,
to a place where a veil
neither hides fear
nor causes it ?
1.1k · Apr 2015
On how to build a house
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
We will build a house
in the forgotten crooked forest
to be our primordial nest
and all people's refuge, raft.

Through screen doors that won't shut
a glimpse of me, baking
banana shortbread cakes, the kids
out there, feeding donkeys, happy
goats making cheese for arab salads,
reminding all brothers to avoid potato sprouts,
sweet poison strangely bitter, thorny artichokes
to joke that eating flowers
makes for perfumed manure.

Freeloading kindness from all quarters, sides
indian TPs and caravanas
for long-term guests, tree houses
for the little ones, a tyre swing
that fits 5, jet-propelled into the lake.

A treasure hidden in its basement, glistening
for a stable house always needs to stand on one leg,
while you, lost at sea, starstruck continue
showing your grin to the world
for that's your home and the best way
not to feel empty is to keep going.

But us,
what a beautiful house we will build !
1.1k · Aug 2014
Roma
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Alza quel culo dritto e cammina, lentamente
santaputtana, satan-puritana.
Hai il tempo che ci metto
ad arrivare fino al filtro,
tre colpi di zoccolo sul selciato;
gira l'angolo ed evapora.
1.0k · Jun 2015
Non parlarmi
Yellow Boots Jun 2015
Non parlarmi.
Apri il lucernario,
l'aria è pesante.
Accosta gli scuri,
l'alba è entrata fuori tempo stamattina.
Leggimi Bulgakov
di soppiatto, nella stanza spenta.
Dammi il tabacco
perchè danzi su queste labbra imbronciate
mentre pronunci male tutte le parole importanti
e non mi parli.
Passami un bicchier d'acqua
attraverso questo silenzio brulicante di genere,
mostra il tuo buon cuore
alla gelosia degli oggetti che tocco
e continua a non parlarmi,
se ti pare.
985 · Mar 2015
of bunnies, years before
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Experience draws a path. Crumpled grass, should have covered my tracks better. I just want to forget how I got here, so that I can't go back.

I love it here. A soft and sweet den. We've been digging bits after bits, my bunny and I, and I'm positive we'll reach the antipodes. Soon enough we'll crawl in fallen leaves, una foresta fresca, a volte come Le Douanier. In macchina vestita di bianco, bello come la coda di un coniglio.

Happiness makes it all y no me digas que no puedes con esta locura. There are no answers and no questions, and I'm glad to share this wide electric solitude with you. Is there anything you really want ? Satisfactory punctuation, a ballerina in distress ? The indomitable willingness to embrace pure concepts in a purple skyline of irrational paranoia ?
978 · Apr 2015
Her ring
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
Monotonous bird calls
squirreling from branch to branch
around the house on the hill
and perfumed used jasmine tea bags,
yellow plastic boots for when the woods are wet,
stewed mushrooms called pig ears, fairy hands, little nails,
her knitted cape, her ring.

Tie braided flowers and tiny herbs
I picked from her garden
around my finger,
I wear her pulse on my wrist.
Build a fort here,
live alone by the land that was hers.
897 · Mar 2015
It will be dry
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
I will load the washing machine
I will
do the laundry
enjoy the spring sun
try not to wonder

they don't have to be sad
poems
and goodbyes
I don't have to
just get by, obviously
drifting my days away
picking the simplest feelings
and words
plain, honest, little getting by
hanging it out in the sun
rinse, repeat
but come back tomorrow, love
and they will have dried.
884 · Mar 2015
Imola
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Correvamo giù dalle scale
pattini nascosti nello zaino
quell'androne e le sue prime esperienze
andare a fare salti nell'autodromo
e mio padre prima di noi
mi venivi a prendere da scuola
scrivevi lettere, blu su bianco
ancora le ** in una scatola.

Quella terra solo nostra,
città per me sempre analogica
questa, mai mia, d'immigrata,
di messaggi letti e non risposti
dove l'aria non profuma di casa ma
di adattamento,
senza biciclette o piste o campi.

Quasi trent'anni e come i nostri vecchi,
che i fossi li saltavano per il lungo,
rimpiangendo che qualcuno chieda
"vuoi giocare con noi",
a pensare a quanti errori fatti,
a livello cosmico,
perchè perfino i nostri progenitori
ci pensino più contenti qua fuori
che non di fianco a loro
sul Titanic che affonda.
863 · Apr 2015
Behind but safe
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
Well, it was a good run. No chewing and spitting out.
I wrote poems, you made breakfast,
walked through mists, danced mazurkas.
Embroidered constellations onto watercolor paper,
braided wicker in your hair,
stars just as bright to lead me astray;
carved our names into dead trees so we could rightfully say
through all dreams that came true,
our love got wood.
Yeah, no, I'll be fine,
it was nice of you to call;
I'll be here, guarding the river,
making sure water doesn't dare to flow by twice
for it might get confused
when it hears your voice brought back by the fearless wind.
I will forget to leave a candle on to light your way
but you fare safe,
and may the dogs always lick your nose
warm goodnights.
832 · Aug 2014
Guimarães
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Poetry at a 45° angle;
the azimuth of its meaning:
french whispers through stained glass.
821 · Nov 2015
lust and the loss
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
kiss me now before the apoplectic
sun reaches the horizon, before
your hate for these refined garments and manners
sends you roaming the wild
land of deja-vus, before
I am not barren but narcoleptic,
sterile, fight
with me for it's been too long
since you and I were created unequal
to last or stand the loss
of one lustful moon
817 · Aug 2014
Porto
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
There's no way of coming clean
from this smell of ***** and ***
footsteps down the corridor
candles that will burn
down to the very essence of wax
your face dripping in morsels
scary heels, secret door-closing sounds
out of this prison, give into the world
stained horse-riding boots
walls coming closer to support
the disembowelment of your memory in wax

fragility of this city I love,
lively echoes down a smoky corridor.
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
The change upon us
is a smile for unsafe grounds
high pitched notes, full breath
is your blank stare to the fireworks
of a trumpet, receding control
is my spine bent
under society's chatter
a transition of priorities
that gives you nothing if you don't see me
and have to make me up in your dreams
curly haired on the pillow
good training I reckon
hands moving fast on the keyboard
change is upon us like milk teeth
rebel drums when you know I'm watching
change is good, change is
us and our love for jazz
inoculated in the wintry city
that offering too much removes all meaning
from any closed-eye song
ever staying the same.
809 · Jun 2015
The Trees II
Yellow Boots Jun 2015
But my shut eyes see the trees, the forest
where yellow crosses mark the path
and wings flutter untimely
citrus wood shavings warmed our nest,
now mine,
empty and full of possibilities,
where Pan and Icarus gave birth
to platonic sailors, where
no one heard the muffled mermaid songs
and this tragedy elected no stage to act on.
Where I untangled the safety rope
so I wouldn't have to cut it off
and you considered all its intricacies
in your free fall towards the horizon.
776 · Nov 2015
Life Lessons
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
Sometimes moderation
should be taken with moderation.
Yellow Boots Sep 2014
Summers when you miss winter
grapes, all wilts too soon
pomegranate, hair grows too fast
mulled wine, until it grows no more.
À chacun son reverie
to each his own regret, complaint
of what was then and is now
uneasy feelings of peace.
The wilderness of your bushes
aflame, incinerated
loathsome
how loneliness, further less pressing in the afterlife
and golden splendor adazzle
but charred, like korean soldiers
always reminds me of you.
The hornet nests crackled in the fireplace
when I set your house on fire
their laughter of agony embellished the hallway
happily buzzing towards descent, aware
ritual     mystic     mass   suicide
of being dragged in the tar pit with you
and offering no resistance.
last eulogy I write. the mess in my head seems to have stabilised to.. uneasy feelings of peace.


.
Yellow Boots May 2015
You asked me for a paper,
I smiled.
On the train to aesthetics,
charcoal stained fingers
and a french beanie hat.
You knew I would treat you better
than your runway wife from the balkans;
war-caused addictions,
how she saved you and left you here to rot
as Paris called her but your bones were heavy.
Rehab had made you weaker,
the house on the hill almost exploded
when you attempted a quick escape
leaving the gas canister open.
My hugs made you invisible
to fascist police down Via Zamboni,
burping up all your discontent,
hiding in the last row of my philosophy class;
è un amore impossibile
despite your green blue eyes,
the radio warned us
and I listened.
I watched you inject it
in the train station's bathroom,
the needle too thick, your skin too soft,
my voice too feeble to keep you unharmed.
Mother's ears too long
to ever let me pick up the phone;
your scattered drawing of me
to guide me to your unmarked grave.
664 · Nov 2015
Lovers in the nude
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
I fill your shirt warmly
but lifting the veils of reason
we're lovers in the ****
intolerant to any lack of beauty.
654 · Dec 2015
nor for the keys
Yellow Boots Dec 2015
clusters of you
in the notes that slide
from hazy fingers,
confusions inherently slow
for the skin to witness,
neck-bending sweetness
and frustration
and you
and pieces.
do we hide in the repetition
of patterns,
does it clump together,
the amalgam distilled;
there is no us, nor
for the keys, nor for the strings_
648 · Jun 2015
Sugar II
Yellow Boots Jun 2015
I have the right to be myself and brave
as myself
I have the right to not be scared
of the words I've tailored for you
in the place I no longer fear entering
In your sacred shrine of empty discourse
I have the right to violate your silence
for the good of a contrived humanity
and myself
This is not the calm before the storm
it's the calm storm, the Fahren-heit
and the solitude of prime numbers
as I set your temple on fire
I have the right to not run away
and watch it burn
purify your false assumptions
that feelings are a symptom
of female hysteria
I am not looking for salvation
in your false prophet's arms
I have a voice and it's mellow and calmly brave
it's the sparkle
that only ignites your kerosene-doused morale
I am a man
and a woman
I am a satchel full of incendiary sugar
607 · Nov 2015
Frogs
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
rest now
like the color of peaches
unsuitable for the table
I am swarms
can you hear my love buzz
around your pond
where you're quiet
with the frogs
?
600 · May 2015
How To Relate
Yellow Boots May 2015
How do we relate to the ancient magicians
that traveled before they colonized the forests ?
What is the secret within tribal costumes and instincts
we've been formatted to forget ?
How much of our intrinsic sadness
belongs to the woods and the fireflies
and do we have to be buried
with it, kicking and splintered,
before it's brought back to the surface?
583 · Jun 2015
The Trees I
Yellow Boots Jun 2015
When your presence brought hope
to my trembling hands, molten,
viscous, beating
words laid upon them
as the sacrificial offer you accepted
into your own, dripping.
Now fear runs wild
and melancholy-infused
church bell chimes choke the air
and the high-voiced choir.
But my shut eyes see the trees, the forest,
the summer stars,
the trees.
571 · May 2015
Honey
Yellow Boots May 2015
through forest fires
coming to you
the stench of paper factories
and indian sweat
with yellow flowers of May I'll write you
love poems of leaves
before they're mulched to muddy waters
wondering what their smell will be like
once they finally reach you
and it's mixed with yours
to melt into golden honey in your hands_
554 · Nov 2015
Each time I open a door
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
I can't take it being in the same city,
I say as I scratch my scalp till it bleeds,
as you, cumin-infused silent lullaby,
torturing my dreams, my wake, my morals.
We left to sift the world's full potential,
my fake healing blooming tenderly
in the arms of pirates and schizophrenics;
you gone, me happy,
glass half full of songs and thorns and zen-ness,
cozy in a home all rearranged
to the feng shui of you'll never walk in here again
so you don't see me healthy, childishly cheerful,
grown accustomed to still missing you
each time I open a door and you're not there.
507 · Mar 2015
2001
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Monili argentati con segni lunari
risplendono alla luce del mattino.


Margherite che stanno morendo,
si accasciano altri corpi sulla spiaggia.


Il cielo riflesso sull'acqua,
immenso nell'equilibrio cosmico.


Pende dal cappio un manichino
sfregiato in un vomito d'interni.


Stelle mescolate in mezzo al vento,
tremolanti per paura del silenzio.


***** spaccate come cocci caduti,
ne escon fluendo latte e sangue.
498 · Jan 2016
If it was bitter
Yellow Boots Jan 2016
Like a mule
that gently learnt the art of escape
my thirst went rambling
the narrow streets
unpossessed, unfollowed
it licked the crevices
of cobblestone, the marble floors
unwatched.

I ****** a peach
and it was bitter
yet it's unknown, my rose,
if I chewed or spat it out.
404 · Nov 2015
Give us back
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
say your prayers, don't lie, don't steal
buy your ticket to the kingdom of
10 don'ts and a pat on the back
slow clap, exude sarcasm, cue black

our moral integrity passing through
refined sugar, palm oil, plastic bags,
watching ****, micro dosing, ignoring friend requests

tiny particles diluted in all
the brainwashing attempts we failed to fight
as we finance therapists, gurus, the cosmetic industry,
splurge on gym memberships

not doing enough

inventing diseases faster
than we can cure them

not doing enough

troubled but trying
unkindly to dissappear into perfection
we beg you, at the end of our wits
give back to us, give us back

organic carrots, darkness at night,
ballroom dancing on a Sunday afternoon
a river to wash our shirts
a sun to mock them

a proud uniform of humanity
harmlessly consuming
our newly-found freedom of choice
403 · Dec 2015
the forest for the ocean
Yellow Boots Dec 2015
and then, something happened.

the cringe-worthy howl that was heard at the footstep of the hill scratched the wind and ripped the clouds open; fistfuls of rain punched their way through the currents; the bridge to the kitchen, a wooden airborne mess.

like on a sailboat in a bottle, the landscape was refracted as gloomy shades of blurred.

this wasn't the mightiest storm his sanctuary had witnessed in his 5 years of solitude. it was simply the one. he would leave first thing in the morning, under dog's weather if must be, following the signs through the broken forest.
400 · Oct 2015
Of..
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
Change of wind
of constellations to follow
of leading notes and accents
of spices and base values
of you and me and the smile
we'll fall asleep to, tonight.
Next page