You can hear the
suburban chime, zirconia vertebrae, pearly white spine.
Glass thrown in stone houses, a regular suburban night,
whirring, rewinding. Chronicled childhood in olive drab paint,
monocle glass.
Wormwood and bottles of Shawshank
dissolute solitude. A wanderer who wallows in the maze
en route, delaying for tomorrow, never promised today.
A virgin diary, Anne Frank, Marie Curie disease, a tincture of rainbow,
even if the distance is blurry to me, he who knows the way to Zihuatenejo.
Furloughed father, demanding you to die when I say so,
26 pesos left in your wallet
lint and mothball, Merryland experiment omelette.
Laundromat arcade quarter exchange
2 o’clock shadow of death and follicle strain.
These boulders were supposed to be gone when I got here,
you shouldered me off, Sunday morning penny loafer with frost,
social commentary Gabriel-Lucifer talk,
metamucil retrograde, Jupiter star.
Bolivian roast, oblivion, and a toast goes to Mars,
you hold my hand, but I don’t even know who you are,
shout at me when indoors, but whisper weak when afar.
I’m so close to eroding, skin growth barely a scar,
in my house, the big wolf, lungs pulse ’til exhaustion.
I read a suicide note from the ghost in my closet,
I don’t know if he knows if this apartment is haunted,
by patriarchal pettiness, reminiscent negligent heart,
maleficent maligned, distant and forgotten insidious offspring,
with ammunition in their lips that keep you off guard.
Feel the metacarpal love letters ’til your fingers fall off,
once you step out the door, you hear the wooden creak in the floor.
Fell asleep at the creek daydreaming before,
every time before bed I hear footsteps coming from deep,
and I hide in my closet, until they delete.
REM hits me while I’m counting my sheep
counting rosary beads for every step wolf takes towards me,
like neighborhood freeze tag, counting to three.
Dysfunctional beings huffing in suburban breeze,
I know that I know nothing is in love when I speak,
into denizens, the medicine cabinet creaks,
when you close it and I haven’t heard it in weeks,
from bourbon to curtains burnt at the seams.
I’m so close to being the opposite of perfect, I scream.
What emerges, a bird sits perched in a tree,
what alerts him is the suburban breeze.
Tag: love
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Puncturing flows of buttery colors, exposed in
Post and pre-nuptial showmanship. Function control,
Amusing instrumental, effusive ode to hold this angel to a centerpiece.
Basil, with cloves, of energy that exposed a masterful synergy,
A weeded rustled drone that tumbled a quiet depiction of the color blue on a petal,
Succulent. Moss grows on my archer’s boot, and a straw of grass clenched by my jawbones,
A flux of rusty trombones that exude music through its metal.
I’ve heard poetry spoken in crux, bolded by a bellowing, bolstering,
Underlined by a snake in the grass, it’s so mellow. Just hold me,
Boisterous, soaked in droves of this sorceress satin.
She spoke in a language obscurely molded in Spanish,
Her lips curved, Sagittarius furor. Sandals and codeworded for passion,
Prescription for cures and an ailment aimed with her astrologer’s arrow,
A hollow barrow, and a node I focused on with a ridiculously pure heart.
Fluent in affluency, forehead kiss, and bewitching allure,
Potion and magic, with an inflection of sultry enchantment.
I’ve met a beautiful queen that I spoke to in Latin,
Aztec rituals led to a madman’s mystical matchmaker,
With slurps of a spiritual flask, drank from a vase of snapdragon,
Curvy dress with cottony ripples slightly past bony knees,
Impervious to the dogma your thighs created. Your soul’s a speech,
Red in a loud voice, in a cabin with a fireplace, abrupt,
Where the fire grows irate every time your feminine tone erupts,
Sensuous, cold, the scent is insane. I could hear your perfume luring me with incendiary allure,
Had enough with the tempestuous situation.
Where an ice-cold gloved gauntlet haunts your lightly toned marked garments,
Misses maestro lust. Larva finds a crawlspace where it bugs my life’s oak carcass,
I tithed to our religious cult-like chemistry,
Where memories like centipedes held life in their arms,
So magnificent, mount me to a crucifix, slow,
And show me the coloration of the sounds that I used to know.
Portuguese picturesque beauty,
Whisking along with curly-haired brunette insouciance,
Where a degree of our separation detonated my inner vignette of Vesuvius… -
Vaudevillian. I’ve flown so far off course
That my radar doesn’t even beep;
It’s silent, instead it weeps
For some recognizable aura of man to detect.
Signature heat, thermal readings, nothing.I’ve become so abrupt in my comings that most of my time
Is spent twiddling my thumbs.
I’ve flown so far off course, like a meteorite
Whose path was altered in a slight trajectory by space debris.
It could be my new home, if it ever passed by me.
That’s how far off I am.I’ve flown so far off course that my wings don’t even flap
In this new dimension of flying; we fly with our minds.
I’ve flown so far off course, global positioning
Isn’t a satellite thing anymore —
It’s how I view our galaxy from a light-year away.
Mars and Mercury are tiny stars;
Venus and Neptune are off,
But furthest, but not least, Earth is the last of the equation,
Where a place full of life could make me feel like an alien. -
Particle physics; radiation courses through every speck and grain,
But that didn’t mean infecting the inflections as per your hypothetical claim.
Bite the bullet, swallow the pistol; it shoots,
Harboring a hollow feeling, sipping Miller to boot.
Coil-gripped Corona, drowning out social persona,
We’re evolving into moths, wallowing toward the
Murky gray skies. Yeah, the coffee! What’s next?
Marvelous pillow talk over a body of sex.
Heel gone from the left side of my moccasin treads,
In particular, an inarticulate guy with philosopher’s breath.
Cotton linen robe; tonight, I uncover the secrets you stashed,
Underneath the cardinal chasm embedded deep in the cracks.
Try to unfurl the English through your lips on contours,
Christmas carolers’ scarf, closed-captioned lyrics encore.
Wept for concourse; a few have witnessed my character’s arc,
Behind the lighthouse, my sailor’s boat tried to signal offshore.
The shelf life of a dying love is only half of what you want it to be,
Being in love and being in dumb. It doesn’t mean I’d just drop it and leave,
Singing the songs for the markers, autumn leaves for the author,
Monastery blues, with the indents of my knees on the altar.
Statistician Jack Daniels keeping a crop of my phobia lot,
Who would’ve known behind every letter is a quarter of scotch?
A stench of me in the shirt I gave you ‘for the aroma in seams,’
With 4 inches of your middle carpal on a mobile digital screen.
A soul gazer in a trench-coat; I remember the buttons with such reminiscence,
Forgetting how to speak to me, Landau-Kleffner expression.
Promises made by executioners fueled by the guillotine lust,
Soft lips with a barbed tongue said your farewells with a clean cut.…Shoot me in the foot, sparing me any beamed blood.
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Empyrean cosmos. This feeling I swallow; it’s real. It’s hollow, but it’s there. I know it. It’s growing, a hole full of sorrow; it’s weird. Some sort of eerie control. It has sculpted out a grave in my heart, it’s six feet into my soul. A clay soldier statue that’s woven and wound up by fear. Wounded by perceptions and ousted by fear. I’m used to it, ruthless, I’m near it, I smell it; I hear it. And movements that veer into me are getting boosted. It’s like every little thing is in motion for me. Emotionally, my blood pumps. It’s mundane humdrum. I’m so used to panic attacks when it happens; I’ve practiced drowning myself to get better at them. Crusted bark falling off the sharp edges of trees. Hearts with initials were pleas for adjustments in romance. CG + your initials here. Or Your initials here, + CG, because ladies go first. It’s old. And when the heart breaks in half, my part of the heart looks like a parenthesis ). It’s funny because you said I always kept everything a secret, like a sidenote, like a parenthesis. I get it, see. I’m holding the keys that unlock the deepest, boldest embarking trips to the depths of my soul. I don’t even know if it fits, homesick. If home is where the heart is, I don’t even know if my home exists.
Went for a doctor check-up and hugged him when he said I had 65 beats per minute. “Really?!” I said, with a smug grin on my face. That’s 65 reasons a minute why I hated myself. Verbal vortex ripped in coercion. I’ve lived a minute for 23 years and I’ve tasted helplessness in 65 different versions. I’ve envisioned never being hurt and it’s never visioned. Feeling defeated every second, I sarcastically think, “Is that why it’s called beats per minute?????” Overly saturated covert emasculation. Social emancipation; I’m vocally allocated. Totally placid. Manipulative dickhead. Owner of phallus castle, got my troops and took over the ovary palace. Sensory sonar. Very elective and deceptive. It’s no-arms combat. I’ve learned to defeat you physically by waving a pistol made with the way my lips sway and turn words into bullets. It’s only defense. I’m the least offensive person alive. I’d totally offend you though. Don’t hurt me; I’m ready to let you go. Let us go. In an emotionless scene, an ocean or sea of developing flowing disease. I could kiss the wrists you executed me with. Puckering kiss cracks like the whip that antagonized our failure. I apologize for actions that me, myself, and I don’t acknowledge in reality. I’m molded. Grown old and outsourced. It’s like the mold in a spore. I can barely afford to pay attention to myself; how would I know I was there for you.
-
It’s 2 am.
I feel interconnected through any vine or snippet of life,
A perennial inflorescence of any 6 seconds chimed.
Success is a hive, hummingbird wings in slow motion,
Hearing the crickets sing, so monotone yet obscurely composed.
Feels like they’re talking to me, as I walk on the leaves that I cross,
Demure, you’re so provocative, and I’m surely a ghost.Crunching of autumn is like a skeleton field for tiny trees in the fall,
To possess you is a perfect choice, and you’re as alluring, a host.
Sunbathed petals drowning in jack’o’lanterns of coffee and pumpkin,
Squash the soggy leaves after a beer, underneath the frothy assumptions.It’s cost me a fortune, ink-jets flew the loss to the profits,
That’s just the cost out of pocket, I wore the pants, but you wore the wallet.
Living a martyr, nose-dive a dotted plane into soil,
Where waves were uncoiled, from the amber gaze, to the point where it boiled.Hear the ether perform, a duet with 42 degrees and a choir,
Robotic vampire, nothing to do but to sink my teeth into wires.
Mechanical organism, metamorphosing orphan, with a heart full of gears,
Bleeding gasoline endorphins, pros and cons was the love you pretended to smear.Propane huffed out of my ears, olfactory prose transposing as mutants,
You wrote me off as a human, with me begging you to hear me out. It was ruthless.
Wasn’t enough, contraption malfunction,
The sound drowned out, a whisper was like dropping a mountain above it.
Teardrops were waves, where even an arc wouldn’t suffice,
You took two of each beast that I had, so immediately, I…
Just lost it.You whittled a soldier out of clay, from the earth a clone was conceived,
With a chisel that was made by the bones of the deceased.
You were the cotton in an aspirin, a linen in my attire I wasn’t accustomed,
To go into combat for you with a wardrobe and the cloth that it’s cut from.
Ungodly, the humdrum, I couldn’t acquire the taste,
You were so tongue-in-cheek with me, I blushed into haste when you asked if I’d want some.All I want is 5 minutes where we understand each other completely,
Where we aren’t drunk or having sex, sigh, where you just complete me.
Developments real, the buzzing of broken street lights is loud,
A suburban cemetery, not a real burial ground, that’s the imagery.You stole what I had, but now that you did, my soul’s deep with love,
You need so badly what I have, but now I don’t even want.
How’s it feel to have it? I couldn’t sate it but maybe I was deeply depressed,
It doesn’t diminish my character, but it diminishes you, exposes your weakness, you weren’t even a friend.You poked fun at my features, especially crucial to the dent near my nose,
Which were filled with raindrops from my pupils. There, now tears are used as placeholders, for now they’re never exposed.So hastily brash, sort of insane, but with class,
You took the sage and lit ablaze the incense with aroma my nasal could grasp.
Heart rates out of the bag, but a cat caught this lung! Out of breath and out of reach,
A tongue with an abrasive touch, I just wanna say what I wanna say, without the effect of me to stay in this funk.I don’t even try to be me, I try to be me, but for you, just like me, to see me as something else besides a jaded complexion.
You were into astrology, I read the sign of a Pisces for August 10th and copied it ’cause I knew you would make the connection.I manipulated myself, but in that, I manipulated you,
All it took was a simple placement of emotion, for you to be the creative ink of my next scintillating muse.
Pixelating, ruse, miscellaneous, who? I’ve never been vindicated ’cause vindication’s rude.
I’ve been to places you… couldn’t move to, in a million years,
Walk a mile in my boots, where bricks from the ceiling and the steel-toe sort of disappear.Dissipating, pointless, ventilating, poignant, vision-aided moistness,
Where physics plays a joint version of the Bible’s revelations, over and over again.
My wound is opening, fix the sutures, fix my future, remove gauze,
Remove smog, sterilize, feral eyes, then apply the ointment.It’s 2 am.
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It has been a while since we last connected. I hope you’re doing well. I’m here to share some thoughts and feelings with you. I’ve been trying to bring some laughter into our interactions, maybe cracking a joke or two, hoping to share some moments of joy. However, I’ve come to realize that this can only work if both of us are fully committed to it, and I sincerely want that to be the case.
Sometimes, my thoughts get a bit jumbled, and I find it hard to express myself without your inspiration. You see, you’re like the rain that quenches my thirst, and I’m the hurricane that’s named after that rain. We complement each other, just like the way winks make me feel special and unique to someone. Just like snowflakes, which are all unique despite their shared characteristics, why shouldn’t a kiss be just as special and individual? It’s a personal and unique experience.
You’re both fun to have around and incredibly cute, and your presence leaves a lasting impression, etched in the very fibers of my being. But, you can also be exceptionally cold at times, and I hope one day to be reassured that I am truly loved.
I once heard that doves have only one lover throughout their lives, and the thought crossed my mind because it felt like you kept me grounded, unable to spread my wings and soar. I tried to take off, but it seemed like something was always holding me back, leaving me feeling like my wings were clipped.
I remember the sensation of your fingers gently tracing across my chest, the contrast between the softness of your fingertips and the slight scratch of your nails. It was a vivid reminder of how you could be both gentle and intense in the blink of an eye. These memories tend to resurface unexpectedly, like a sudden realization when I’m sipping coffee on the veranda.
Some memories are so clear and poignant, like the color red in a black-and-white world, that they stick with us. Maybe that’s why people say that blood is thicker than water, emphasizing the deep bonds formed through shared experiences and emotions.
I think back to the moments when emotions are so powerful that they feel like a song’s lyrics, or when a group of people comes together to sing along to a favorite tune. It’s like that feeling you get when you hug someone you truly care about and momentarily forget all your worries.
As I write this, I can’t help but chuckle, even as my eyes well up with tears. It’s a bittersweet reflection on the past, sifting through every detail in hopes of learning from it and improving for the future. I strive to live in the present and not let the past weigh me down, but some wounds take time to heal.
Our relationship is reaching a point where it feels like all I can look forward to is a physical connection, a brief escape from the prison of my emotions. I sometimes remember kissing you as if I were watching from outside my own body, an out-of-body experience.
I’ve always tried to make you laugh, but it’s become challenging to distinguish when I’m being serious. I find myself in situations where I pretend to be someone I’m not, like ordering a soda instead of a drink at a bar, putting up a facade to hide my true feelings. It’s a cycle of using alcohol for confidence and then using it to escape reality, only to wake up filled with regret.
Our souls are bound together, and a kiss is a symbol of our connection. I hope we’re not strangers now, as there was a time when I couldn’t predict your actions, but I always trusted that you would make the right move. It wasn’t because you were predictable, but because when you touched my chest, my heartbeats guided you, like a psychic connection with visions embedded in your palm.
I wish I could see the future for us, but I can’t. I can only dream, and in my dreams, I long to be awake. The pain is real, and I find myself crying in bed, hoping the white sheets will hide the evidence of my tears. I see you everywhere, even in the clouds and in puddles I resist stepping on in the rain. They say that eyes are the windows to the soul, but all I see in my reflection are eyes darker than coal. I hope this doesn’t mean that everything has turned to ashes.
Sometimes, I tell you to keep your glasses off because you look adorable without them, but then I think your glasses look even cuter without you wearing them.