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domestic

CAUTION:

do not wake while sleeping

do not knock when bach’s mass in b minor is on[1]

 

do not wash dishes while shower is running[2]

do not ask questions audibly while there is reading to be done[3]

 

do not say ‘right,’ ‘calm down,’ ‘relax, or ‘chill’

at your own risk: ‘hurry up,’ ‘come on,’ or ‘you’ll be late’

 

ask neither ‘are you ready?’ nor ‘how much longer do you think...?’[4]

do not allow the yolk to cook[5]

 

do not approach in media res[6]

i repeat, do not approach in media res

 

do not empty coffee carafe into her mug[7]

do not save it for yourself[8]

 

do not leave her towels heaped, a sponge submerged, or damp refuse

do not watch her take any care while imparting knowledge to the task

 

do not mismatch the power cords from adapters and their sockets

do not allow duvet cover to crumple, revealing the loathed beige sofa beneath

 

do not double lock her door

do not inquire as to her innumerable alarms

 

do not bring balcony slippers into the house

smoke outside, but do not leave the screen ajar

 

no crumbs on the floor

no unsolicited contact during sleep

no long kisses without tongue

don’t dare tilt her macbook screen

 

now go, enjoy[9]

and as always, operate with care

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1] if you don’t know what to listen for, just never knock at all

[2] you think you’re helping to tidy up, yet you’ll end up dying young

[3] a DM will not distract her all that much; expect a prompt response

[4] if any of the aforementioned pragmatics came as a shock, please place down this poem; out the way you came

[5] if it doesn’t run, you should

[6] from liquid eyeliner application to cutting produce, this is ill advised within pre-lunch domestic sphere

[7] detestable dregs!

[8] takes one to want some

[9] bring wine

dirty hair

blonde strands as venetian blind,

one eye looked out over past the covers,

placed deeply under her chin, almost to a light choke.

decidedly, she opened

 

both eyes into halo admitting slits.

the brown skinned body angled slightly

toward the window made the first moment

of waking sight accosting—

 

intriguing. a tinge of guilt for being voyeuristic

tried to bubble up, as in the way societally trained

people perform manners

with plasticine precision.

 

large and full—deceptively fantastic

bent over, tightened in

accentuated to noteworthy;

all can be plastic when eyes aren't open.

 

‘she’s right, when she has a guy fucking her from behind

they really are in luck,’ she recounts,

closing shut and scoots her own ass

a few inches,

 

her bed to herself

stretches stretches

alarm reset, most likely to be ignored

to set her into a purposeful lazy sense of panic.

 

‘i only feel this way after...’

 

snooze...baggy black dress, deodorant

in sedimentary layers, as too the mascara,

bobby pins, red pens, whatever, showers

have been optional this week.

 

twenty minutes late,

unabashedly related to humidity

and heavyish platforms;

a different dirty monday.

 

the caravel hotel

found amongst the macau mirrors, within the mass produced black lacquer box,

teacups, saucers, lids and pots strategically placed, a pink paper slips,

 

printed less daintily than ornate pastel patterning, a warning emits:

crush the pills beneath the pillow, swallow whole the peanut brittle, grow a meter

 

but then drown in bathtub ink. black tongues lapping at oxygen, an inch left, seizing 

each millisecond, for a sip of steaming air—she wakes up panting, thirsting,

 

thoughts are breaking, lapping, looping, and she feels the patterns printed in her skin.

she can feel the pads across embossing, the veins of still whole craft palpating.

 

you know the contours of the cruising, the dimensions of the chips and flakes.

you wake, bodies heavy in an ancient state.

formalities

she missed out, most regretfully,

by the oozing flesh beneath her nails;

the thoughts of loss dig deeper,

despite the pulsing wounds;

 

tearing heftier discount bedding off,

tangled thoughts of brocade linger,

but she’s made of all that's borrowed:

bone blue broken teeth.

taipei: a haibun

heavy, filthied silver and red panes run perpendicular to the slabs of city cement. christmas striped paths to lead the denizens in walking safely, always to the side. swaying gently above, but not against these rectangles of man-made stability and direction, are innumerable trailing droplets of lush green life. vines infinitely smaller than the once clear pipes terminating in never been white buckets, each lain in moldy snaking rows: clogging the bronchial tubes of the city, leaving her diurnally begging for clarity. greyscale gestates with the summer heat, swelling the corrugated passageways with hand-sewn nylon attempts at protection, the rhythmic ballooning and contracting, dampened unskilled hands running up and down, the sweat of the uninitiated streaming quicker.

wishing winds to whisper balance

each palpation assumes

a clean rinse