I could ignite the lingering spirits on my breath, to delight in the taste of death at midnight; entrusting the right of life to be caressed by bony fingertips and dressed in denial. Inside a specter writhes homing in on the heart’s reprise as it aches from deprival of the love it needs to survive. My crumbled chest rivaled with loneliness can depress the spinal sparks that decipher pain from hieroglyphs; message my brain in simple sentences, pay me with imprisonment. The final toll has long since passed despite flowing sands in the hourglass. Cracked are my lips as they slither in secrets, arrest my thoughts for they’re bound to regress into animalistic urges as the sun disfigures herself against the horizon she dies on and purges the deified notion of immortality. Demise resides inside, a parasite of time that no one shall defy. Intangible and fixed, yet unable to predict. Deep and soft it leaves its mark, like a sensuous kiss.

-SLuR

Advent Remains Unoccupied

Advent remains at peace, unoccupied
There are no Advent trees to buy or steal
No seasonally-discounted lingerie
No Advent hymns background the lite-beer ads

At Mass: a wreath, a candle every week
And music set to God, not to the sales;
The missal now begins again, page one
And through the liturgy so too do we

Almost no one notices this season, and thus
Advent remains at peace, unoccupied

Nobody opened the path out of darkness.

Scientists assembled - in a clean room in
New Mexico working tuition time -
a three-thousand megapixel sword
in the reflection of whose blade
we saw the bleeding comet
and, flipping the hilt in our hands,
saw it spark as it traversed the edge,
and from its position knew our place.

The universe instructed us to sing
and we refused. Instead we watched
its jaunty hand tick time away
and call for decrescendo.
We played with bombs.

If it all feels perilous, it is.

Watching the white face of the moon
for mushroom clouds
we rutted, and learned new recipes
and held out forks to one another saying
“taste”.

And when the fear has passed -
  which it will
  for the world is perpetual
  because we live in it -
it will be locked untouchable in the past
where fear cannot go.
The fear instead will be:
of the million flavours we have made
and fed each other, is any a part of us still?

Thanks to all my poet friends
I’m glad you support my work
Your comments are a reflection of you
And they are my thoughts.

Thanks to all my poet friends
I’m happy you talk to me as well
Your messages are kind of you
And they are my inspirations.

Thanks to all my poet friends
I’m lucky you share your writes
Your writes are the art of your poems
And they are my noble masters.

Thanks to my talented poet friends
I owe you because of your help
Your collaborations are talented
And they are the beauty of my poems.

I've never been good at
Being touched.

Though the fingers
Of endless suitors
Have traced incomparable
Lines of affection,
They all stroke
The same wounds.

New hands feel like
Recycled lullabies,
Humming promises
Of a new melody,
Singing a remedy for
My impassivity.

Whether words fall
Passionate or
Fearful,
Endearment lines my lips
With an expiration
Long enough to convince me,
But short enough to leave me.

Reminding me:
The disintegration of
Indifference
Remains
My prerequisite
For destruction.

So before you
Touch me with
Promises of a new
Orchestration,
I'm already marking the
Days until you leave.

Because my skin
Is tired of
Intruders hidden
Behind momentary
Infatuation.

So keep your hands to yourself.