Tiles

Tiled
in this gloss walled rage
with no strange worlds to depart
like sins gone
lost
left uncommitted

you live in the spread of light
like renaissance whores
shedding laughter
for the seams undone of a
breaking dress
and the lofty thoughts
of a jukebox mind

Picking up a cloud
the wasp hits the window
in a classic fondling fight
like two lovers encased in their vile hatred
enmeshed in this parasite kiss

a gruesome leaflet of temptation
and paradisiacal hurt.

Flamenco

I suppose it's similar
to the silence you keep
towards the long lasting lover
when his smell fails to incite
the roll of the shoulders
and his kisses lose texture
like some digital photography.

I suppose it's similar to
dependency on the well known
and the unbearable idea of
returning to solitude and that
impenetrable void that mangles
the persona and his ways.

I suppose it's simply called
falling out of love-
a desperate revenge for things unsaid.
(what was just said?)

And so the ego will of course entice you
to remain in this dull affair
a safe nest built in 6 years
of loneliness
a silk cushioned net meant to feed
the need for emotional fulfillment.
but falling out of love
it will eventually occur
that
one morning
you will allow the nest to
roll from under your limbs
a graceful fall resulting in
heaps of slashed hay
and you will feel absolutely nothing
and you will put the 5 pairs of clicking shoes away
and you will lock the skirts in a suitcase
and remove the b&w pictures from the
electric blue wall
and stop spending money
and sit with wide eyes
enthralled and incredulous
at the utter disinterest
-even boredom-
that stings through the
videos and the burned cds and the people and the words and the polka dots and handkerchiefs and the crossed eyebrows and pursed lips and you cannot fathom how it all became meaningless one afternoon.
and you cannot remember
which afternoon.

Apparently your life was just an obsession.

The next day you take out the soft black shoes
you've been storing for 7 years
and your heart is racing
at the sight of a regained talent
You wonder if it is similar to being on rebound
or if this is really it.
The drive is different of course
especially now that you're getting laid all the time
now it's about endless consumption of cappuccinos
and blinding spotlights
and elbow length gloves
and deafening cries
and the readiness of a big American city
and fuck art
it's gone and it doesn't matter anymore
so is this really it?
It's impossible to know
everything is intolerably uncertain
except the fact that
one day you love something deeply
and the next you will not.

the word ward

It becomes a difficult
nearly strenuous task
to write poetry when
you can sense the upright cock
at the other side of the gleaming screen
it’s bulging beauty detrimental for words
and toxic for madness
And so you become quite aware
that loneliness is the muse of all genius
and that you have surprised yourself
with your lack of professionalism
and the softness in your ways.

I recall the then
when he named me the pineapple
with coarse surface
and gentle fruit
And how I could not hide
the pain
and the horror
that sprawled each time
his eyes escaped
like my lack of understanding.

Now he calls me chocolate
and we amuse ourselves dearly
at the peace of the other’s sleep
the infinite possibilities behind the eyelid
similar to the unpredictability of our lives
similar to the buoyancy of an adventure
A landscape of sins
a nightmare of flight
a calendar fiend
the truth of a murky secret
all raveled in a helium twist
of lofty smiles
and addictive sounds

He’ll never make any sense out of my poetry
The most intimate expression of self
But that’s okay
because I will never quite comprehend
the relevance of color gradation,
or the sublime impact of fonts
or why he gets upset if I cannot decide whether a line is straight or not
And it’s also okay
because no one is supposed to understand poetry anyway.

clocks

I stared at the clock
as he laid beside me
and talked about mother
the electric blanket
exaperating against my back
and the bubble gum pink
reminding me of other times
when I had rougher ways
and a stronger smile
reminding me of other times
when even grandmother didn't seem so dreadful once

I stare at the clock.

It was fascinating to watch life tick by
I've always been impressed by the precision of a second

"Why have you been so silent?" he asks

it is a terribly difficult question that I cannot answer.

I stare at the clock.
it's works are so exact
the way you wish life could be
with one second mounting the other
we grow old
but its arms return to 12 always
always returning time, always returning time.
and you cannot imagine how exhilirating
the entire cycle becomes when
one arm reaches for 12 and the other 6
and all you see is one long black line
drawn from one end of the circle to the other
it is a divine moment
when opposites meet
and coincide in time.
the way things weren't with mother.