When black and white collide…
I Lie flat in this rectangular death bed-The piercing chill detaches me
From the gray colored world of uncertainties.
Today, I shall walk into the valley of death
Where I sing the happiest melody of sadness.
Today, I shall wake up with a rosary
Coiled on my hands-
I shall write with no hesitation
Only they gray silhouettes of words.
Today, I shall punish my hands-
pound each word on the white paper-
so I could squeeze the juice of syllables-
and paint the
Abstraction of my thoughts.
Today I shall draw a line
That divides each world-
A thin endless line,
Like a knifed horizon
Where the sky and the sea
Seems kissing from a far-
Kissing-
Like an asymptotic bliss*.
*best, allow me to borrow your words, hehe.:)
When Mockery overpowers…
The black vertical thin line mocks mefor the nth time-
When my paper bleeds words
like pain and sadness,
The black vertical thin line
harmonize with the
Beating of my heart-
counting numbers of death,
Echoing inside the hollow room-
guarding like death’s rusty armor.
Now, my paper is half-filled with words-
words that will defeat the black vertical thin line’s purpose,
Now, my words devour the page
where it can no longer mock-
But just sleep and hide
as I turn
My succeeding thoughts
into an end.
Puffed-up
Last night, when you whisperedto me the crispiest story of the day
I laughed with a colorless reaction-
You stared into my eyes,
a thirsty tiger waiting
to be quenched.
I pushed you away from me
but you stood behind me-
Leaning, pushing your body harder
to mine-
from the time
you drew your hands into
my shirt-
I could feel your cold bare hands
Exploring,
nurturing each of my
full grown fruits of pleasure-
You kissed them with your ambitious lips,
imagined them by your ecstasied* eyes…
We breathe, we stopped,
we were in a brief hiatus-
surrounding us were white curtains,
undulating
with tempos beating, beats from our
Tainted hearts.
I moan for forgiveness,
I cry for bliss,
I envy the goddesses-
We cry in tears.
When things were done,
I clasped my bra and
put on my skirt
and so with my white sticky shirt,
a spit from your nicotined* mouth
tarnished my shirt
and the owner of the fabric,
Everyday I go home with this thought-
as dirty as my whole-
a whacked swollen whore.
Good Morning Juno*!
The sun is up,Girls are busying queuing to take a bath,
Inside the laundry room my pants hang damp
The alley floor scatters food left-over-
Another icky food fiesta for hungry cats,
The surroundings is the same, even if they
Have grown green leaves and let go of
Withered petals, even though their branches
Spread-out, even though they give life to us-
Still their existence remains the same.
The mineral water bottle is empty,
The orange and blue tumblers
Stand proudly even they are ¾ filled with water,
Even though they appear like thirsty
Penises.
The mineral water bottle is a womb-
A hallow room of a baby.
The lid is open,
Making it vulnerable to objects that are
willing to penetrate.
These trains of thoughts are complete-
Giving birth to an inanimate objects,
Producing a poem,
Producing a baby out of words.
My poem is complete-
After 9 minutes of thinking,
9 minutes of arguing with my mind-
I have produced a baby-
My baby which I will call a poem.
*The idea is an allusion to the movie Juno
~ by scarletpoetions on April 16, 2008.
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