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

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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

opal eyes

She always sat on the same swing, and no matter the weather or the day, he always found her there. Mostly still, hands wrapped tightly around the two chains like pillars and guardians by her side. When she swung in the air, the few rare times she did, her grasp would slightly loosen- and he often thought about how easily he could push her off. Did he plan on pushing her off? No, of course. Never. But it was simply a thought, in the myriads he had about the thousands of opportunities presented before him. He often thought of meeting her, but once again, it played out all in his head: as either a simple, “Hello, I’m Tom.” to “Hello, you baffle me everytime I pass this playground to go for work. I’ve thought of the many times I could introduce myself, and I guess this is it.” He never actually even dared to see her face. All he had to do was walk in front of the playground and not behind, but he was scared that too would ruin the moment, her moment. With her spine gorgeously upright, wood-colored hair tickling the swing seat, muscles tense, she seemed deeply engrossed or entranced by something. What was she staring at? Or was she inside the realms of her mind, just like him. So her, and the thought of who she might be and could mean to him always hummed like a bee in his head, disrupting the music coming from his earphones. At 9:20am, as he made his way to the office, he would witness the epitome of beauty. It was a moment in which he found he was most human. He was a simple human, searching for the beauty in life. And somehow, it had always presented itself to him in her form.

She always wondered who the footsteps belonged to. Everyday, when the sun took up a particular spot in the couch of the sky, a particular set of shoes would hit the ground. How could she tell?

She was blind.

She saw in different ways: the feeling of transparent heat tiptoeing from her lap to her arms, would tell her the whereabouts of the sun and whether noon had striked yet. She could pick up the movement and crunching of gravel and estimate the shoe size and heaviness of a person too. So just as she picked up all kinds of patterns in her life, she picked up this one.

It was a slower stride, the gravel moved languidly under the heavy soles. It was a man, she concluded, after the first 3 times of his passing. Sunlight would heat up her fingertips and that was the signal. Scrunch scrunch scrunch. Then there would be a pause. He was probably looking her way. She never turned around though, for she wanted to keep him spellbound, to keep her assumed beauty intact. Refusing to wear sunglasses, her blind eyes remained wide open, like two big milky opals dominating her face. They took all the attention away from her praised facial features, thus, ruining her to-be witchcraft on men.

And both of them went on like this, her hair melting down her spine, merging with tufts of silky clouds in the sky. Him, like a hungry beggar, following behind, yet never getting too close. Both too scared human touch and voice would interrupt the sacredness of the moment. Both never realising they had become each other’s highlight of the day, each other’s break-for-a-second, where breaths felt fresher and life, brighter.

She only ever heard him, and he only ever saw the idea of her beauty.

“Nothing gold can last.”

One day, when fall was undressing into winter, it got too cold and she decided to walk back to grab a coat. Picking the stick lying on the floor, she turned around a minute too early, for the sun didn’t shine that day. He was passing by, as usual. Both were slightly too slow to realise what was happening until a small gasp crossed the air between them. Tom pondered upon those eyes, then regained his footing and walked past her. He walked away, towards his office, and towards finding another source of beauty.

The next day, she didn’t sit on the swing, neither did he walk past it. And neither the day after that, or ever, in fact.

Like humans do, he moved on to the next spark and she moved on with life as if there had never been any interruption.

let the wound open

yesterday

was worst than

a blizzard

but it

cracked open

a pill i didn’t

know i had gulped

down

and so it gushed

open like

a wound

and i realised

i was out of plasters

 

 

and i scrambled

for tape or

cloth or anything

that could stop

this bleeding

of

accusations

inflations of

future

deflations

revelations

probations (mostly)

 

 

and so i tried

running-

skin against

wisps of wind

and rain

hoping that snake

bite would get

caught between

my huffs and

puffs

and melt away

 

 

but instead

it spread like acid

like inadequacy diluted

with who i want to be

and this whole

time I’m asking

why i’m not who

i want to be

and why i still

can’t talk the right

perfect way

and why everything is

not yet quite perfect

so the mind goes

on a merry-go round

and these thoughts

bleed

spew out

laugh

spit in my face

 

 

i’ll keep

spitting blood

i’ll keep breaking

the veins in my nose

so all i smell is iron

and rust

 

 

finally i give up

on bandaids and

running and let

the wound open

this time i’m holding

a magnifying glass

not a gun

i’m not ready to

fight or

fly

may you be

may you be

chartreuse liqueur

makes a small den

in the space between us,

wrapping itself up

into a small cocoon

to then slowly have itself

unravel

by my hands-

your hands

 

so as we unravel

and as it unravels

i find myself pinpointing,

us, on a great big

map

dotted lines suggest

where we were

where we’ve been

and it’s one long winding

road, tainted by the same

chartreuse lamps

 

sitting between the

rocks and your legs,

humming

 

too often i find myself

realising

the traced pencil marks

(on the map)

of places we could go

maybe on bike

or car or train

maybe with money or without

maybe the trip

is all in our mind.

so it’s all maybe there

or somewhere else

maybe i would like that

maybe not really

 

my limbs, tangled between

“may” and “be”

and i look up,

back to you,

and start thinking

 

you’re may,

you’re newborn summer

fresh and dirty

full of bee’s buzzing

and may you be

my

emerald birthstone or

simply the sudden rainfalls

you’ll still be buzzing with

that life that reminds me of

may. reminds me

of the day i was born

so i can be born over and

over again everytime

we sit side by side,

small little bee

in may,

you remind me of –

 

may you be

that

or something

else,

or

maybe,

just let me

envelope you.

 

maybe i love how you’re

maybe this or maybe that

remain undefineable

i find that entrancing-

to put it bluntly-

 

(and to put it more bluntly,

every time you’re here,

you surprise me with something

new,

 

a new way of seeing:

like im wearing glasses for the first

time

over and over

again)

spring clearing

polish our kitchen

tiles;

they gleam with

incandescent

neon

green

 

 

clean up the mess up

from the floor

made by the cat

 

 

clean the air between

us

clean my dirty hands

in the presence

of your purifying look

 

 

i’ll clean the mirror

for you

and as I wipe that

reflecting surface

i’ll wipe your tears

and ropes

of hope

 

 

break my mug in the

process,

pick the bits up

only between early morning

and the town outside the

silent windowpanes starts

its engine

 

 

bit by bit

we clean the kitchen

bit by bit

breathe in sliding

socks over marble

and sinks with running

water:

finally the plants

have something

to drink

 

 

spring clearing

your soul,

all those dirty bits

like beer cans

left behind by tainted

people

don’t let them

stay for too long

dear

or the mirror

will get  too

dirty

 

 

not that i mind

coming over

every morning

to feed the

cat.