The walls of your womb have begun

To draw my vermilion blood

And slit by the edge in your voice

Is my throat nipped in the bud


You must know surely and indeed

That I shrink from the rage I feel

Claw at you and cleave, demented,

My thin skin I took years to weave


I can hear my heart tick away

As we say what we have said before

And our fingers fuse around

The cool pin in its dark grenade core


A Single shadow blights the room

There are no locks on the door

I vanish and you dissolve

In our vitriolic amour




You drew lines with sticks and chalks

in my soft, moist earth

while I cooled  feet in  the soil

with tomorrow sown for mirth


Now you’ve shown me a sky scarred

by ruby-eyed planes

and scraped by ivory towers

that I must climb with bars

Joy, sincerely feigned

and have my country heart devoured


it’s venom that moves me now

since the day I was bitten

with your blinding diamond teeth

It’s venom that draws me to death

in your fire, I glisten

Its smoke of my flesh I breathe


And for now I move, a beast

caged in robes of elite

glide with wings of a preying bird

carrying bleeding, mangled feet





Blues of dawning hearts

they swirl in quivering skies

shall we paint ourselves red

shall we turn to ripe

shall we turn to glowing stone

pierced and waiting to be thawed

or shall we swim in the violet whispers

open and soft

never home

gleaming one moment, tearing in another

drenched in electric thunder


Shall we soak the sun for its vital incandescence

and lose our contours to its heated whims

Shall we lean into one another

and taste the fear and thrill

of being

in flight

In The Bus

Summer descended upon her and sank its searing claws into her brain, fracturing the tender connections between her several and swirling thoughts. She squinted against the shard of light that streamed through the dusty, blotched glass pane. Had she been reposing in an air-conditioned, neutrally toned room that was scrubbed and vacuumed and polished and mopped to a degree of pristine perfection, would her mind have been a tad bit less cluttered? Had she not been rocking to the blithe rhythms of this ancient bus, one that was in effect, a furnace on wheels, would some clarity have graced her musings again? Continue reading


“The Moon sings to me, and sends me glowing pillows carrying sugar-cube dreams for my heart.”

I proclaim to myself. Yet, what I see as unassailable actuality is, in fact,  merely an optative reverie.

Spread across the ominous sky- it’s colors never dark enough to be black, and never a shade even remotely as discernible as the most treacherous indigo- are the sprightly stars, amused at the austerity of their own mother fabric, the vast sky that has cradled them since time was an infant.

Starry Night Over the Rhone by Van Gogh.jpg

They know my dreams, and they know yours. Perhaps their delight arises from the knowledge that they’re a part of all those dreams, and the ones our minds spin into a gossamer cocoon of repose to screen ourselves from the overwhelming heat of the sun, right when it reigns over us diminutives.

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