Perseverent

I haven’t written
And, I haven’t chosen to be written;
though I am written in leaves and blood
and the mud — snapping with teeth
like the branches of the woods

Oh, youth, you made me feel fresh

And immortal

Not a serving of flesh cased behind a bone
and all the bone is chewing to break out
to now what it cannot know, now

I wanted so much to know what it was like to write
to have known if I had written anything of any value

I am writing as I will always write
clutch my blood next to the quilled ink
sparrow along the ridges and dominant the
lull of the breath; stay passive at the apex of the muscle

I will knead into me a belonging in poetry
as the bread knows the yeast and the sky knows the sun.—

a scratch by a purr

there is a sensation in my bones
a chirping of molecules like crickets
fastened into my mouth and throat
like some oral fixation

feel myself moving like thuds in the attic
a ghost of a heartbeat manifesting
in poltergeist steroids of adrenalin and noise

I was flesh before I was matter
I was wind before I was echo
throating my whines and neighs and snarls and howls
making the most decisive decision
to not mute my speech.

Peripheral I

walking down the path
exploring the stoned pavement
clinking of my boots underneath
tingled with my breath

the night is vast and the sky vaster
as I move along; trying to know the streets
near my temporary home
as if I am sewed on them as buttons

passing a bus stop a blonde beauty with
her phone on and a man suddenly says
“five minutes” to me and I just move along
not letting him ruin my sense of liberation
that straddles my lungs and makes me feel
one with omnipresent strings and stabilities

reaching a lane that only goes down to
liquor stores and convenience shops
where cars slope down hills and adjacent
is a island like a park with few people trodding
it is not past midnight; hardly evening,
but this part of the world knows winter
as a solace of the hearth; warm meals and
lustful covers and perhaps the odd shift
looking onwards — with its half hilly and
urban scape everything — Leeds is breathtaking.

when I walk back home I know I will receive a call
from Mom past so many miles and seas
asking me if I have eaten and asking me
why my usual routine was overturned
and I can tell her of my boots clicking on stone
and me nibbling a quiet dinner by myself
thinking of her and others; heater on
and forgetting if a moon had been out
walking with me as well.—

*feels like a companion piece to Mari’s You Within

palm of a blue giant

a blue giant branched out in my palm
feeling me the force of love
pulsating in the corners of my smile
universalising my cure to frailty

each page then resounded a letter
that was me in the finest form
filled with peccadilloes but also purities
and the horse did not come to bring apocalypse
of a degeneration but a prince who was I
fighting with my sword and scimitar

an oasis branched out in my iris
a solar system of planets and stars
in the constellations of my all my deeds done
and all deeds to come
finding that I was bracketed as the moon
with the definition of suns

I glow because my luminosity
is the only one who I can proudly state was me.—

classical antagonism

nothing seems to be more caustic
than the ignorance of being ignored
and the indifference to the genuine
the practice of selective empathy
that has the negative zeal of selfishness
the mistaken selves on the shelves
of some codified, communal and coefficient categorisations
that a human moulds to serve themselves

was I never good enough for you?
was I never a good friend for you?
did I not talk to you when no one would?
did I not give you time and also befriended
your sorrows as my own?
and took your phantoms seriously?

why did you whisper sweet nothings in my ear?

it is hard to gain the respect of someone
who didn’t know what was the denotation of love
and the connotations of the affection
that lay between my chest

I palpitate
but grief should not be my second sun

for the indifference in you
highlights my love
and the nth power of my being
knows that what I did was infinite.—

papery intuition

a shadow etches my name
writing it as though it was inked by the sun
and slivered by the moon; even its darkest quotients
and craters edging like a spine of a assembling book

a river like a styx makes memory easier to remember
with the fear of forgetting; my life uneventful
still a source of some esoterica — how the soul
writes its own meanings; it’s own footnotes
that the tongue caught but could not spell
and the bibliography grafted on angel wings

making my lunar self catch the singed fingers of my
solar silhouette — chasing each other in the cosmos
knowing the insights of being lost stitched to fate
and destiny the dental cast that stays
when you are paper for the leaves to read.—

instrumental independance

tampered into a bow and string
my body became like that instrument
only thing was I was also the arrow
boomeranging on and off

never the passive fully
never the aggressor fully
I knew my glass was half empty and half full
I was insulation but also catalyst

my fusion requires nothing but love
of the dysfunctional self without the matter of arrogance
pride and dignity in intersects humbleness
a balanced equation; a revolving spirit

what is about math? the value of the prime that becomes
both example and ordinary? — bivalent like the human condition

I cuddle my bones as I embrace my beating heart
that told all tales and bit the vampire
for the blood of life does not not fear the undead.—

survival of the fittest-frailest

caught in a light sneeze as the amour mentioned
caught in the gale of my breathing
you mouthed the syntax of my name
and the blade of my passive movements
and the language of my kinetic flickerings

made 90° angles with my vigour
and the whole larynx tasted it
you cannot feed on me
without knowing I am poltergeist in you
drying you hollow — you cannot make me perish
without hyphenating yourself

we are bodies before flesh
stitching the patchworks of us
each blood drop and vessel
monitored by the masts of our own voyages
seeing me on my odysseys
and my pilgrimage of blood and water
as my networks pulse and dry

with my obsidian eyes looking at a grey flag
we must know the harshness of the desert
before we savour on the cup of the oasis.—

silver skulled beast

a silver mouth I wear and a silver mouth encircles me
positively foreign; positively native
a common tongue we speak

a kiss that caught on fire
then melded with an ocean
a foam that broke the shell
and the fragments that became tears

metamorphoses
each cascade on my elbows and calves
kinetic energy; ATP following its path
and my spine polished brighter than ivory
for the blood that clings

rawness is me
flushed are my cheeks
not some decadent shyness
or some tardy aggression
but a fusion of both
my whalebone clavicle
and the geyser of the hearts

prickling on my skin
if you won’t want the animal in me
you cannot merely understand the human.—

dichotomies on the move

you cusp me but I was already a cusp
my poison and pleasure all corroded and rusted
like a knight’s sword and shelter
an ambiguous sex that travels alone
with breasts hidden and chalice overturned
ripe as the green and an anomaly within some neo-structure
what is theory without practice? And, what is hypothesis without the daydream?
The lamb who sits with the lion is the predator; strangle the claws with sheers of clouds
sky meets earth; the tiger needs the night and the day
and I always thought the dichotomy in me
was a hybrid who ionised and deflected when needed
after all magnets know the method so does the madness
leaning on the serenity if iron; meteoric as I traverse the rainbow
storm meets heaven and nirvana meets the moss.—