A torture chamber
this world of puppets
and executioners,
I have long forgotten
every tingle of pain
in my unformed body.
They can wrench
my glued painted nails
defaced by the rust
Type: Posts; User: miyako73; Keyword(s):
A torture chamber
this world of puppets
and executioners,
I have long forgotten
every tingle of pain
in my unformed body.
They can wrench
my glued painted nails
defaced by the rust
Right after I finished watching
that dimly lighted foreign movie, a masterpiece
shot somewhere on the Italian coast,
I thought about you, your uniformed muscles,
and how you cheerfully delivered...
A recluse alchemist magician
confined in the cold custody
of this wheeled chair to weave
words, alloy rust, and silence,
I have been warned by death
masks and their knocking as if
the...
Thanks, Nikolai. I hope you are well too. Yep, coming here and starting again is nostalgia on steroids.
Comforted by the rough of the stucco wall, my back
leaning on the hint of dew as I watch the moon hide
out of shame, alone now, struggling to finish the day,
trying to unearth all blues in the...
My jaws unlocked to welcome
the rigidity of steel, surgical, exposing
the uvula between the tonsils,
a soft stalactite to an explorer of caves,
you have my approval to enter.
The contortion of...
It's a conversation
between the doorknob and me
when I stare long
and its glint in fake gold
glances back
as if for a turn
my hand is too lazy to labor.
I've now mastered
the parts of the...
You, I, both strangers now,
the shifting shapes of our eyes speaking
of the air you shun, deducing the spit
to many unknowns, the softest moans
of fevers, the tastelessness of phlegm,
the...
On the roadside, I ask the wind
if I am a poet. A ripe persimmon falls;
a woman picks it up, blows off
the dirt; a child smiles. I choke up
as it murmurs: now write me a tanka.
...
Before Brokeback Mountain,
we had been breaking our backbones
in the hill of trash;
you dug for iron scraps,
while I collected
every shape of plastic;
you held onto my ribcage,
and I leaned...
Her age a secret,
but she can whistle
at passersby
to ask without
the weighed words,
to smile
the pouted price,
her lips tinged
but unable
to articulate it right,
A girl, near puberty, by the window
when the sun wanes at three,
knows the atmosphere of melancholia,
the shape of anguish,
the multiple shades of dejection,
palpable, wet on her arm.
...
Nice one, Dieter.
Clicking her disposable lighter to fire up and burn
the bulbous bottom of the glass pipe, she thought
of the men shot in the streets and left on the roads
and those women wrapped in brown packing...
Thanks, Dream and YesNo.
When you see the sky blue and the calm of the ocean,
remember the grays in the slum, the black in daylight,
the falling trees, the decomposing, the gutter drying.
When you smell a scent of May,...
Thank you, Delta.
When I watch
the fat drops of rain
hit on the cactus leaf
facing the bare sky
and bounce to fall
from the rough edge
as if a rejection
of its stubbornness,
you
prod my forefinger,
I clicked inbox,
saved what came up,
Word opened it:
Wilbur's The Catch—
a strange poem
about fishing,
a woman's dress,
double meanings.
On the oak chair,
"Since we're born as humans,
we should have dreams
as big as the Pacific Ocean"
— Sakamoto Ryoma
Your long sword succeeded. I cried
without tears for you. You vanished
the...
Michelangelo is thinking about carving
a raised mole somewhere, an afterthought.
My head is just too big,
yet I can't express my thoughts
about the eagerness of your hammer
and the edges of...
Inside the art gallery
holding an annual charity event,
I slowly walked
from frame to frame,
my eyes to the moons
painted in different colors.
My fingers were fidgeting
on the stringed Akoya...
In iambic lines
you describe me
from head to toe,
but your volta
fails to reveal
who I really am.
Where's the dance
of my fingertips,
the sensuality
Heteronyms
"The poet is a pretender
who's so good at his act;
he even fakes the pain
of pain he really feels."
— Fernando Pessoa
In Bed With A Clown
Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up,
but a comedy in long-shot.
—Charlie Chaplin
I picked pinch by pinch