medicine tree

cross eternity

with me

maybe not

maybe hide

behind my medicine

tree

behind pills

and pulls

and puffs

and that’s

where you belong

on that faraway

land

isolated

raging desire

waiting

catatonically

still,

me in

bones

 

 

 

still i cannot

make my mind

up,

will you

be my personal

turpentine?

that’s to decide

until you

show up at

the pit of my stomach

familiar,

hunger

 

 

dear

medicine tree,

 

 

i’m sorry

if i’m not,

chewing

swallowing

chewing

and if i am,

either way,

i’m scared,

but i’m

not

and i

want to

see your

skin tight

dry crusting

lips bugging

begging

but i do

and i don’t,

and i don’t know

whether to swallow

your pill,

or not,

or swallow it,

then spit it out

 

 

so if i have

this masochistic desire that

underwires the

fire between

my brows

forgive me if

i like to deprive

in order

to strive

so slowly,

slowly i’ll

hide a few snicks

and snacks

here and there

and i’ll stop

gulping that last

spoonful

i’ll stop sitting

i’ll stop breathing

i’ll stop expanding

or contracting

 

 

sit under

my medicine tree

i’ll pass you a pill

i won’t ask you to

pick between

blue or red

because i won’t

be the pill

but the space

between them

resting along

your ribs

Advertisements

math class

sleepy

droopy

heads like

dying daisies,

petals of hair

on the brink,

falling off the edge

of eyelids

 

 

yawns that

could gulp down

the world

in one contagious

outrageous

inhale

(and that just made

me yawn)

 

 

rubbing and

scrubbing eyes

stretching arms out

of hibernation

 

 

dull frustration

 

 

beating softly against

temples

squeaking with

sleep

deprivation

 

 

all waiting for

one big

revelation

the zenith of a

rollercoaster,

the pop of a

cork

 

 

but

it drones

on and

time drags on

stretching our

neurons

thin

 

 

we’re nothing

but mathematical

ghosts

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 anymore

you.

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?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dragon’s breath//inspiration

crimson

vehement

red

passion feels

like a dragon’s exhale

on your skin

and

when it hits

in parallel lines

below your brows

you light up like a match

and burn

burn

burn

 

 

and that’s when the mystical

starts

hands take control

neurons breaking

synapses connecting

clicking

collapsing

electrical inspiration

whether it be

with a pen

or brush

or C majors

you tailor

your own little

reality

incapsulated

with your essence

a fountain fuelled

by the immeasurable

past future,

space time

the giant climb

before you

 

 

this newborn

baby

born into

creation

born out of your

hands,

born along

the arborescent

wrinkles

ridges of your fingertips

and time

 

 

look closer and

you’ll mirror

reflections

of yourself

staring

back

Alone time is okay.

Alone time is okay. And it’s okay if some days you just want to dig into cloudy soil with muffled breaths to make a blanket out of morning sunlight and just go back to sleep. it’s okay if an assail of jitters takes over and all you do is sink- so let yourself sink, and let yourself fold into a beautiful paper crane. your wings might be tainted with vermillion cuts but know that they will heal with each  peppermint breath of silence. Dear, it’s okay if some days, faraway echos of laughter tug at you but your limbs only want to weave into empty spaces and places where your arms can stretch for miles.

it’s okay if unlike other flowers you don’t explode, pirouette with light around presences and constant talking. instead, you might just want to ease on the accelerator, eyes enraptured by one one pair of pupils at a time.

some take it fast, and gulp down the day all at once- but it’s also okay to glide from one second to the next,

expanding gently,

unfolding,

unbinding

with time and patience.

at times you just need to stop with a mouth full of marvel and a deep breath.

you bloom in quiet beautiful places, and that’s okay too,

because honey, in the end, we all water our flowers in different ways.

So dear, take your time hopping from soul to soul. languidly expand and you’ll find that meeting each individual glow will soon feel as soft as braiding hair underwater.

mystical speaking

she spoke of realms that exceeded the world and overflowed your mind, sprinkling evanescent glitter on the top of your head with the tips of her fingers. Open your mouth, she’ll place a pill behind your tongue; and it spreads like acid as she speaks of these unknown worlds, mouth shaping sound after sound oh so majestically. now you’re in a state of bliss questioning whether space even exists or does it only appear between each blink of her incandescent blue lashes. she speaks in elision and you also wonder if she’s got human blood flowing in her veins or does she come from mercury or some other elegant planet? one moment or another you’d expect her to turn taciturn, lean over, slice your tongue in half, pocket the pill and replace it with sugar.

you want her to teach you how to see sunlight under leaves or count how many arteries a tree has compared to a wave because you feel like she controls it all, controls how strongly the wind blows or how many clouds there will be today and what shapes they will form. but you know she’s most enchanting under an eclipse’s moonlight or early dawn, barefoot on your terrace. jaw slightly slack, eyelids too, and of course, speaking. you’ll make her soft fur accent into a pillow and fall asleep, dreaming of all those faraway realms she says one day she’ll visit.

writer’s block

Words may seem like the silliest of little things, stubborn and childish. At times, I find myself dragging them out by their baby fat arms, maybe even bribing them with fresh obsidian ink. Trust me, their heels stay grounded on the floor of your palate, shoes squeaking with friction as you pull and pull. When it gets worse, they simply cross their arms, huff out vehement resentment, then with their oddly shaped bodies, trot under your tongue. Now you’re really in trouble, because you can’t reach for them there. But you know they’ll come out eventually, they’ve got to eat somehow. You’ve given up, you’re sinking into the leather armchair, thinking, maybe you should just resort to making armchairs instead of writing. Practical, and there’s no hide and seek with them. And as you slowly fall asleep, with your jaw open, the words crawl out, one behind the other, and place themselves onto the paper, with infinite patience. With an ornate smile, they let themselves down, their spine going clack..clack..clack like the sound of a retractable pen being clicked.