lavender

i’m walking on daggers

split into two and

quarters and i’m not

scared of my bare feet

but the blood that

will stain the

stainless steel.

i’m rushing over cloths,

wet to the right degree?

of the right texture, softness?

satin or silk or simple cloth?

guessing game of their needs

until i’m sitting on the floor

and the door is closed

and i’ve realised the clock

has made two rounds:

I still haven’t decided

and the wet cloth is dry

and the blood is dry.

 

Stained blades on my floor,

stained blades are my floor.

Mother and Father

water them everyday,

preciously and forgetfully

but on their way they forget

the lavender blood

marks

and do they ever

ask that question?

Where does it come from?

 

They walk over to me,

“please make things cleaner,”

but I can’t hear, for salt water

clogs my ears and maybe

it was too bad to expect

bandaids, so now I look down

and they look down

they say

it will heal on its own:

“you want to help us?”

yes, i whisper.

“Don’t show us this bleeding,

clotting, broken blood”

and I slap my hands

over my feet, they stick

to blood-skin like

clams.

 

Only soft, lavender

baby skin for you,

Mother, Father.

Only sweet perfection,

and uncontaminated writing,

mouths that

never choke and

lips that stay firm

and noses that know

when and how to

breath,

at a constant rate,

and platinum feet

that don’t mind your daggers,

(so I don’t stain your

blades with my

lavender blood.)

(I know it’s a collection

you hold very dear

to you)

 

Don’t bleed at the wrong

time, don’t let lavender fill

you up first fulfil them

or flip inside-out.

But,

 

lavender blood

leaks anyway

through crevices

and bubbles in

my mouth,

they see

it now and finally

they give me plasters.

Plasters to seal these

talking holes,

don’t let any of it escape

I don’t want to see it”

close the holes and close

the bedroom door

and close the corridor

door

and stop bending over,

you can’t cover the

holes like that.

 

Two rounds of a clock.

 

Relief now stretches

over their faces until,

I choke

on some

lavender in

my mouth, again

reflex and

unwanted,

and they sigh.

 

Shut your eyes, baby,

and it won’t be there.

And just play some songs

for me,

but now I have to go baby,

I have to go clean the mess

on our blades

and I just…

have to go..

 

I’ll get back to you

the next day.

You know, when

this whole lavender

idea is out of your head

and we can go

indulge in some food

like we do,

we promise we’ll forget

the stains, okay?

 

Pick anyplace you want,

okay?

As long as it’s not

purple or

lavander, okay?

okay?

 

And I realise the clock has

made more than

two rounds.

 

I still walk on my hands,

hands jammed like clams

on cut feet.

 

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an ode to new books

i’ve never really

written down how

much i marvel at new

books

 

 

new books begging

with their legs open,

open me,

crack my spine

click

clack

click

watch every node

snap open

for you

 

 

flip through my

pages like

lightning, i’ll

fan out words

with gusto

 

 

soft, yet hard,

confident cover,

matte and slick

my fingers,

horny, scratch

and slide over the surface

feeling the soft bumps of

curves of the title.

 

 

i’ll penetrate

pages at random,

eyes flirting with words,

but barely skimming them,

saving them for the future.

my nose, instead, saves

nothing and places itself

completely submerged

between two flat papers

inhaling magic and newly

pressed printed smells of inks

and yellow

 

 

dear new book,

i’ll hold you with one

hand, then two,

flip you over like a pancake

in a pan

slice you open like

new cottage cheese,

 

 

i set here in bed,

9am,

ready to deflower you

donut hole

Recently,

I’ve been stuffing

my body and organs with

tissue paper, empty,

slippery butter and

holes,

 

I climb through donut holes,

as a small mole in woe at

indentations into fried dough,

dirty oil bubbling

oil tackling

flour, butter and all.

Now, the final product sits

through my finger like a loose

ring: tender and appealing

and

whole.

I contemplate,

how shall I make it

sickeningly sweet?

and maybe if I ingest all that sweet,

I’ll discreetly be as sugar,

delicious,

delightful?

I’ll eat around the hole,

until the hole is no longer a hole

walk out of its role,

for what’s around it is gone,

now it’s just one whole,

nothing.

maybe my own hole, in between ribs

and nightless nights

will also be gone?

whole or un-hole as long

as its no longer…

hole.

 

I’ll swallow and gobble

this donut and finally I can say

something solid makes me up,

makes who I am.

This little amorphous saliva,

mucous dough, sugar ball has

a purpose,

and a hero’s journey.

Mouth to stomach, intestine to anus.

It is bound to cross the finishing line,

reminding me, forcefully,

that maybe I can too?

I must be able to?

It’s like trying to sink in brine.

 

Teeth stained by moist

divine, liquid sugar:

guilty for that hopeful nectar.

 

Eating this donut:

destruction of the void.

That cave in the middle, an intruder

and I’m a marauder without a map.

If my hole were to cave in would it be full,

fulfilled? Filled in,

but in the right way?

 

The problem, plain simple,

sits in the middle. The

hole.

Infinitely a hole,

infinitely nothing.

It’s okay, I’ll gobble down

sugar coated outsides

and poof! the hole softly

fades out of existence,

my hole slowly fades

out of existence for…

 

one,

two,

three,

 

buy me another ring-shaped

fried sugar thing, or whatever,

as long as it can pile up

inside me and I’ll feel this fullness

for once,

even if its just in my stomach.

 

I know no other material,

usable material to fill this tunnel.

people are having a drink,

souls are

semi-permeable

semi-convulsional

not at all

conventional

why must we

intoxicate

this thin

veil

in order

to unveil.

realise your

flesh is

transparent

and

your veins

run with

naked

passion,

inexcusable.

 

 

just take

your coat off,

its all too

transient

to bake

in these wooden

sleeves,

so intrinsically

intricately varying

in colors,

shades

tones

so different each

precious soul,

encased in

this humanity.

i just want

to hold you

and raise you

to the next level of

consciousness

bip bop (lonely) future

stip

step

boots

stampeding

over

plastified

cellophane

faces

 

blip

blop

ro-

bots

you forgot

the smell

of books replaced by

blink, blink,

blank

screams

blank ego

inflation

(followed by deflation)

bright

light

bite my pride

like my fluorescent

lies.

 

scrip

scrap,

wrap

the world up

with

me

me

me.

 

mommy where are

the fish?

(the ocean seems

far too empty)

oh honey,

no matter,

only we exist (now)

scrip

scrap

the rest.

 

it’s only

us

us

us

and maybe

a bit

of

bip

bop

ro-bots…

christmas

winter, here,

 

snowflakes moulded

out of the fire

from our

thud,

thudding

hearts

turning hot

chocolate lukewarm

like hands

jingling and dangling

over a pine tree,

needles made out

of comfort

and compassion,

contentment

and the little pleasures

of tingling cold

turning

old freckles

gold

bold cheeks,

fiery red

 

you’ll pour

kindness threefold,

we’ll sing songs

untold,

a stream of golden

harmonies,

swaying to strums

of human souls expressed

by throats or

Instruments,

 

blissfulness

 

hold on to

aroma of sweet

savoury

book spines,

gold vines,

mug stained letters

woven into

sweaters…

exhale,

bonfire

and

inhale

soft

freshly

baked

tenderness of the moment,

 

 

sinking into leather sofas

caster sugar,

and the smell of christmas

 

open all your doors

let your souls dangle and waltz

the stage is all yours

acid & tender.

tender airplane

lamps,

stretching

arms

grasping seemingly for

something,

yet nothing.

 

acid like my

reflection.

5 lamps stuck to

each side of the mirror

so I can better

hunch into furrows

I’ve dug in my

dreams

of you.

 

Acid like covering

your ears

when flushing,

in that tiny

gasoline

toilet

cubicle.

 

All this trudging

of feet to find

a recognisable head,

TV screen,

“oh that’s my seat?”

 

in tampering darkness.

 

Acid spreading like this

cycle treading

takes over my

migraines-

soon I realise

 

it’s all tenderness

compared to my thought

of you. Whispers

of you

even on this modern,

apathetic,

emotionless

plane.

(yet you still creep in)

 

3 movies, 6 hours.

Inevitably, like a

prisoner paralysed

by their own

choices

watching

pixelated lovers

circling other lovers:

I’m wearing coloured

lenses, filtering

all these loves with

past versions

of you and more

of you.

 

I wish it could all stop

because it’s blinding

me from the true

experience of

a simple,

tender,

airplane ride.

 

They distribute

perfectly marvellously, moist

lukewarm towels.

Distracted only for

a few flying

fleeting seconds

before heat scampers

into frigidness.

 

i think i just

miss your heat to the

point where it’s

neither

tender

nor

acid?

 

so before landing

i’ll let my acid love

spread up my legs

 

(i really don’t know

how you find tenderness in it,

darling)

.

Munich, time to turn

the hour hand back.