chromaWe were merely children when the stars came.
They rained down from the sky in a burst of light, like shards of glass pouring down from the heavens. Supernovas blooming in the night sky, petals raining down onto the barren earth - angels, falling with their wings sheathed, glowing, as they glided down. We watched, starstruck, as the glow overtook us - we were mesmerized. We waited with bated breath as the meteors landed, the celestial light subsiding as dark forms started to pick themselves up from the dust.
They moved towards us with an otherworldly grace, their steps leaving no marks on the earth as they descended upon us. Frozen to our spots as they approached, our bodies simply unresponsive in their wake. We were paralyzed. They stretched out their wings, embracing us in a softness unimaginable - a polymerization of silky feathers made of pure light, like a soft touch of a rose petal - and suddenly, our eyes were opened. The world was the same, yet so new, as it was washed with a gl
crown me with bonescrown me with bones
and draw the unspoken words out of my throat -
rip the promises to shreds
sew my lips shut
and keep my voice
in a box made of your saccharine lies
open my ribs and tear out my heart;
drown it in formaldehyde-laced ash
and scatter it under the moon's blessing
carve out my shoulders
and slough off my flesh
trace the maroon rivers of my blood with iron and steel
draw out my soul and crush it to dust
and may it rot
before dawn comes.
MarketTentatively, I pick up a tomato, weighing it in my hand. I turn it round and round, looking for any imperfections. It's flawless, so I gingerly place it with the others and tie the plastic bag closed.
"That's all? Anything else?" the stall owner asks as I get out my wallet.
"No, that's all." I reply, handing him some coins.
"Have a nice day."
The market is packed with people: housewives shopping for dinner, children zigzagging between neatly lined stalls, and young couples leisurely strolling. The approaching winter makes the air sharp, breaths frosty; everyone is warmly clad.
With the tomatoes in one hand and a brown paper bag with my other groceries in the other, I navigate around the market, scanning the crowd.
I find him at a small stall selling hot beverages and cakes. Grinning, he holds up two large mugs of hot chocolate. With some effort I manage to swap half of my groceries for one of the mugs.
As we walk back to the apartment, I feel his hand twitch in mine. I look
LibraryBooks with broken spines and peeling covers and loosening binding and stray pages falling out:thumb350092508:
And sometimes a stain can be seen between the letters as if a tear has nestled there and left its mark
And that peculiar smell of old paper and dust
They have been loved
regardless of where and which roads (write)i. so today we get together
as per your request
today you (at last) confess to me
i watch you narrate
the e.e. cummings you've
kept chained in your rhythm,
in your beats and paces and all other nooks
and hidden places
i've secretly always known existed
i want you to start writing today
ii. you tell me you believe
in your ability
to write the words i always knew you whispered;
steaming at the hearts of other girls
turning them to froth
while i watch my own heart
shrivel like dregs
in the same cup of cappuccino
i've always been drinking off drought
iii. i am screaming even in my softest tissues
blaming my body for my hearts' issues
admit to me
(your best blue jeans and bravery set forth)
read me unspoken
find it futile to resist (dear me)
by grace you do and you do
admit to me
my meth, my myth
how (i never have the courage to say)
i am your greatest muse
Ocean-wide, Pocket-sizeShe is the perverse whispering of phobias
Shadowing each and every action I take
The capricious heat of the moment decisions
That I almost always come to regret
She is the gathering of tumultuous thunderstorms
Knowing she can bolt my world into Cimmerian
The tattooing of molten mantras on skin
That pool me from drowning in burns
She is a mouthful of psalms and lucid eulogies
Spreading her disease quicker than cancer
She is ocean-wide
She is pocket-size
I rebuke her- mountains and thread counts at a time
Urban Evisceration there is a thundering of one hundred buffalos-
the metro awakens
and stampedes across the pre-cast
terrains of my intestines
welders busy mending on one end
cutting on the other
surgeon handed precision and each moment costing another man's life
whether or not he may set food on his table
Earth Rise from the Third Planet HotelEarth rose in front of the stars outside of the domed top of their room in a swirl of blue-green mist, tinting everything inside with it's glow. The entire building was was made out of enforced fibreglass, and their room was autoset to opaque blue and white that mimicked expensive wood panelling and soft carpets. Rayne sat on the bed with her suitcase at her feet, gazing up at the vista above her. Leanne squinted at the display settings by the door.
"Earth is... beautiful from far away." Rayne said.
"You should paint it when we get to Alpha Centauri."
Rayne's shoes hit the wall.
"Everyone has a print of that, or a painting, or rendering, or an embossment or something. It's the most overdone opportunity for art this century."
"What about this room, then? Apparently we can change the settings. Colours, transparency... there's a little palate thing and some pre-made settings for people to play with."
"It's a great idea. Come on, Rayne, make it rain rose petals. We could be
PostcardIt had a picture of a little girl riding a trike, and before he thought about it it he was holding onto it. It was a postcard, somehow tucked into all the greeting and occasion cards, and the little girl just needed to have brown hair, and then she would be Sandra; age four. He put it in his basket, and found it again when he was home.
"What's that?" said Julie, when she caught him looking at it over the grocery bags.
He handed it to his wife.
"Oh," she said, "Oh that looks just like Sandy when she was little. Look at that smile."
Her eyes were sad when she handed it back to him, and he felt his insides twist together. Later he sat at the living room table, sipping coffee staring at the blank side of the postcard. There was a pen beside the lamp. He reached into the drawer and pulled out a pencil.
He wrote it as he said it to the card.
"I just wanted to say that, before you figured out it was your father."
The card was half full, now. He realized that it couldn't say what
Untitled IIIheat inside
heart in mouth
spit it out
for safety's sake
stomp out the fire
gape at self for a while
at violence formed
with bare feet
but charcoaled ventricles
to hardwood canvas
while phoenix colours
lick over soot
and up legs
consumed by outside
rather than inside
so give in
new skin emerging
pink as dawn
the first tottering beats
back to life
and walk with
pins and needle soles
joy in motion
on new feet
I Ami'm puerto rican guyanese, but i say puerto rican indian, because no one knows where guyana is and it's easier because people always ask: are you indian, are you spanish and maybe it's more exotic to be spanish and indian, because everyone is puerto rican and no one is guyanese and i can't speak spanish and i can't speak hindi and i never read the vedic texts and i can't dance and all the food i cook is some bastardized recipe, some mixed up food i half learned half experimented with.
i'm american and as an american i'm obligated to have some talent, but i can't sing and i can't dance and i can't act, but i can draw and i can write, but not everyone is great at everything and i can write well and i can draw well, but i don't know colors and i struggle with concepts and i can't write poetry or tell anyone the technicalities of grammar.
i am puerto rican guyanese, and everyone is puerto rican and no one is guyanese, and it doesn't make me very special because i look like every other mutt
FertilizerPoppies are no less
lovelier for the bodies
buried beneath them.
Trench LifeThe tut-tut boys are hitting dust,
All intentions go but got no thrust;
Never-mind Fritz for now, here's proper combat,
‘ere, hey, Tommy, give that beast rat-a-tat-tat!
Marching away with feather in hand,
As far as the front lines all that’s planned.
Bring yer own gas-mask, bring yer own box,
No leave this Christmas; it ain’t on the clock.
Take us through our trials, put us to the test,
Listen up laddies, we ain’t no time for rest
(plenty of that for most of them later, eh?)
Let's get these boys going in the mud,
Gotta nip that youth lark in the bud.
Got yer gas-mask, got yer box?
One or the other with this lot!
Keep your feather, love, I’ve got guts,
And when they’re gone, I’m going up.
Cross SectionIndulgent grey mornings,
like grey silk screens,
overlap and cover.
At sunset the sky is fully purple,
then fades to black,
nocturnal stars awake from fitful rest.
It was just coincidence:
our paths were converging lines,
that Kismet drew in his sleep.
But if I were to go back there,
to that yellow house,
would I see you on the corner
of Grey and Purple?
'Lolita', pages 32-33Pneumonia offered me
I welcomed it.
I had nothing better (than)
Fifteen hours divided into
light and shade—
the solace palatial, the shade excruciating insomnias:
AlphabetApples were falling from the trees in the orchard. Butterfliesmonarchsfluttered about, preparing for their winter migration. Calypso, the neighbour's cat, scurried to and fro, trying to catch the monarchs whenever they landed on a flower in the garden. Dew had settled on the grass, misting the tiny green leaves in its subtle wetness. Everything buzzed with the quiet sound of life undisturbed. Fields, belonging to the local farmers, were turning brown as winter approached. Greg, the neighbour's son, was out in a field, saving the wheelbarrow from rust. He guided the wheelbarrow to the shed, and then disappeared into the old, empty cow barn. I had met him once before, at a neighbour's dinner party; he was nice enough, but he was boring. Just like everyone else here, he was simple and unobtrusive and nice enough, but boring and plain and uninspired. Kaitlin had told me this would happen, that I would get bored of this place. Luck had been on her side, I guess: she had at least
i believe in sherlock holmesHe wasn't a man of strong faith, solid faith, nor any faith for that matter. He didn't believe in a god or multiple deities or pray to the heavens for rain, no. The world was vast and vacant, abandoned by whatever had brought about existence. What other explanation was there for the hopelessness that plagued him day and night, that infested his thoughts and made him cringe?
When he was a soldier on the Afghani battlefield, valiantly defending his Queen and country, any small remnant of faith that he might have cradled was shot along with his friends, his fellow comrades at arms. Seeing that much suffering, death, and despair damaged a person beyond words. He returned to the bleak streets of London a broken man, or at least he thought so. Something deep inside of him told him otherwise when he met Sherlock Holmes. (When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.)
Sure, the bloke was incessant. He was always saying the wrong things, constantly picking out flaws and consisten
susurrationvertebrae like rough marbles down my back,
clacking back and forth as your finger
strikes each in a row, coaxing
a constellation from the
fissures of my fresh
(he made a home in a gap between two of my ribs
and sometimes i feel him laughing at my heart murmur)