humans

Humans are so intricate, like finely tuned violins. If you strum them with enough fragility, they’ll sing you tunes that are out of this world. And for every phase of the moon or mercury, they’ll bathe you with their sweet little personalised melody. At times, these tunes full you up to the brim with melancholy hopeless despair, then they’ll tip you over like a water bottle as you watch yourself spill out your tales. Tales of how deep a cave your heart is and how many shadows splay upon it every time moonlight crawls in. Other times, it’s as if their tunes were to empty you all out. You’d imagine them place a straw and suck you dry when you never even realised you were a full bottle. They sing to you lullabies with a voice that dips down, then arches high with peppermint breath. All you do is lull your head back in pleasure, hands waving in the air, intertwining with all the magic around you.

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On growth

Teeter-tottering between utter indignance and the shallow waters of seemingly-ancient preoccupations. Preoccupations that held upright the clay to form the statue that I was. Eyes frozen in place, head never to tilt a degree lower. Now, all that’s left is cellophane snakeskin, first shedding between the cracks, now peeled off completely- with the satisfaction of removing a used up, scratched up sticker. New flesh glistens, pumping and fuelling, beating unusually. Fingers skim over this newly polished marble surface, and only once or twice have they delved under. Floating back up to the surface, it’s the feeling of having tasted a first time: unimaginable, frighteningly beautiful bliss, you never knew you could find even after multiple sunsets of digging. It’s the feeling of cracking a prepubescent book spine open, or the desperate inhale of air after having childishly timed how long your lungs could go without oxygen. Then your fingers slip out of these depths and return to longingly caressing the surface. You’re not sure how many more times this marble floor will open up for you to dive into, or whether, with the seasons passing and your exhale blowing like the wind will wear the layers out. But after that one glimpse, your motor’s running and you’re ready for more.

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.

 

AGENT OF SELECTION

“experimentally

assessing

the need

of such agent”

 

agent of

selection,

the hands pulling

your strings

you realise,

you have no spine

no skyline

nothing divine

just sloppy

soppy

floppy

veins bending

(regulated)

blood flow

 

agent of

selection,

you were never

the one

in control

run back

before the patrol,

make sure to

disintegrate your

soul

 

agent

of selection,

and so “the organisms

that are better suited to their

environment

survive

 

the pressure”

 

pressures that

squeeze you into

a drop of oil:

pull, tug and

grind you up into

a canned shaped

compressed

version of meat,

not you

anymore.

they’ll put a

label on this

can:

not your name

but your

dolla

dolla

bill

worth

 

agent

of selection,

only the

most suited

survive

so open your mouth

and give them numbers

upon numbers

of only the highest percentile

promised of

how you’re

“flexible”

“adaptable”

“always ready to

learn”

 

 

3 words

to describe

yourself,

tell me about

your biggest

challenge

prove

prove

prove

you’re worth survival

in this maze

of green paper

 

“selective agent

picking

the

better

suited

for the environment”

 

between

two tectonic plates

small organism,

will you survive?

 

between

polished shoes and

ticking time bombs,

small organism,

will you survive?

 

will you survive?

will you survive?

will you survive?

nit-picking at adolescent impurity

well

i knew

it was going

to happen

sooner

or later

paradise

finally

opens its hands

to unravel

before you

a long

long letter

 

 

 

a letter

about the

same old things

like

expected

love

expected

warmth

expected

i thought

i was going to

be happy tonight

but i guess not

i thought

i was over the

same old things

i thought i

was over the

same verses

i seem to repeat

in monotonous

consent

same old

nonsense

and

it’s always

the mind and

the mind

same old

same old

 

 

i guess thats

what adolescence

comprises of

its masquerade

of gifts

you don’t know

who you’re

dancing with

until the moon

comes out,

the mask

peels off

and that’s when

you feel weak

because there’s nothing

to tweak

you’ve played

with the idea

of something

magnificent

until it’s been unveiled

and you can’t

help but allow it

to engulf you tonight

as you rest on

your pillow

 

 

and the cycle

starts again the

next day

and the mask

comes off

and yet

you can’t help

but shudder

every time it happens

close your

blinds,

but it

seeps through,

seeps in,

until sleep

forgives,

and takes it

away momentarily

 

 

so all i can

do ,

out of this phenomenon

is to document it

with lanky

words that

flap in the wind

helplessly

fan out

trying to pick

up the dust of last

night on the roof;

 

 

me,

watching waves

sequentially

roll towards

nothing

leading nowhere

me trying

to remember

how many times

i smiled

and what muscles

to contract

in order to show

the straightest

array of teeth

 

 

the straightest

spine

the straightest

answer

the straightest

me,

just for you,

packed up in a

pretty little

ribbon;

that’s how you

like me?