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relationships

unwanted

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me

unwanted orchids, you left me ceiling dazed so

now i don't really care


solo sheet tossing, semi hoping you’ll appreciate me

i know it's kinda dumb when morning’s done and

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me


ignoring plans and heaving hope, left to my own devices

i felt a build up; if you feel it, it could be meant to be? nah

—now i don't really care


i find you sucking smoke, eating words at the back of the party

i’m speaker bound, been begging you to come my way, but

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me


you were running round rain drenched over there

i got myself soaked waiting for you to embrace me, so

now i don't really care


take your sighs, swoons, needing stares elsewhere, elsewhere

—are you better babe?

i couldn’t make you fall in love with me

—now i don't really care?

NB: text incorporated from the lyrics of Arlo Parks’ ‘Cola’ and Yuni’s ‘Fall in Love’

a park

a spot subtropical:

first breezed in unwanted

cutting humidity with knife knees

searching while staying

where it’s been paved


a sunday gazebo filled

with unknowns

invitations and exchanges

uncomfortably gazing past—

there must be more like yourself


an old vietnamese blanket

added hopefully

to shape of foreign wrinkled sheets;

placing self then self-consciously

alone among a tribe


beneath since that time

pinned palm trees

your cooking & your cutlery,

a pile of books, homebrewed coffee,

strong speaker, same crimson and mustard woven blanket underneath


at peace

as one without your pack;

a few years and finally

memories overturn in day haze

gutteral gratitude, belly down on

yellow leaf peppered grass



perspicacity

brought before the sun shafts,
senses lit

squinting at certainties
covered in unanswerable questions

asking in the throat,
if soreness when swallowing

should disappear
if refused such constriction?


pondering beneath lids,
if vision when natural

could heighten in mind’s eye
as if on inner journey?

contesting wrists,
if sensations when wrought up


could be alleviated
if stillness once more was common?


wondering of lips,
if sought numb and cold


could ever be relearnt
if those ghost kisses were buried?


challenging the tongue,
if these textures of morning


would slim in size
if night’s palpation is omitted?


will daylight,
shredding and sharpening—


while we try blinder, stiller, duller
but shrewder—


ever escort us home
as whole again,


or are we condemned
to be outwardly shone and sore?

contusion

—after sylvia plath's 'contusion'

 

the girths of the seasoned girls hold secrets

bare, oily expositions in subtropical sun

the past's darkening repercussions sub rosa

 

what was rose swiftly goes to lilac and lost denim,

in a week will be chartreuse, ending in fawn

tarot readings & electronic beaches

tarot readings & electronic beaches

substances over substantiality has been for a time

the modus operandi; i draw and select of pentacles—queen,

i enter the sand battling barefooted, searching for my dark woman

 

there wigged women shuffle black sand toes

knees knifing, elbows bowed against

tautly turning bellies harnessing hope

 

mostly ignoring rhythmic knowledge, i am found

searching for men with dramatized eyes,

a black night fronds and silver stars aesthetic

 

i am found beneath a wig, a pretension, and a problem—

the people climb imaginary walls, wriggling for some eyes only, but

compliments from jeweled crown women lull ego to perception

 

the moths' wings drowned in urine and sweat

bland colored creatures struggle on blue plastic embossment

lest we slip and land on our backs pathetically writhing in tune

 

and too sand slips from the wide eyed feign’s lamenting hand

i spit small balls of mugwart leaf, blood purging out in retribution

still blinded by sandstorm beards & salt hips covered in patterns saccharine

 

kisses under cold wet sheets, colder cans, and steaming sweatback creatures

clamor from tent to stage, feral and feeling more and less than they'd bargained for

none of this is real anyway, the placement of beats absorbs our sins

 

back for more brew, last day, red cup offered to white lost lips

the five point celestial embodiment of purge, except and let go

the garment touting woman isn’t dark enough, yet one must serve as guide