internet poetry
-
i. hors d’oeuvres le rien Nothing, naught, nil, zilch – we stopped believing in waste. Instead we light a candle and fill the table with light. ii. entrée orgie de légumes achetés en magasin Vegetarian thing on vegetarian thing on vegetarian thing. Served with a side of rice and a garnish of ash. iii. dessert
-
Months – many I have, remaining. They trickle through my fingers as shards, not sand. It fades: it commits itself to memories, it lingers. Surprise – the Singaporean man who, like the haze, comes again uninvited. He wades: against the current, grains in his pocket. Newsflash – I’m reaching the point where another fall is
-
warm with sweat and short of breath, I watch the clouds spread out, to blanket the sky. down in the valley, headlights beckon to me, like ships on the horizon, far on the sea. and so, here, on my lonely rock, I sit, the earth a mirror of the stars. each light in the distance:
-
As I write, my heart aches – a pitiful phrase. Unwittingly, I dreamt of African vultures And photographers, hanging from the rafters. You see, the horror is not what’s happening now, But in what occurs thereafter. Within my chest, I still keep a canary For you – and every day, it sings the same, dreadful
-
a brain that needs to be scrubbed clean. burdens- they stand, idly, on my shoulders. now we’re all waiting for relief. an ache, 3mm above my heart but nowhere close enough to even matter. something hangs on the tongue. the taste of rust spreads throughout and the air: it is heavy. silence raps my eardrums
-
green is the colour I shall wear today. green is the guise I hide myself with. the sun rises and I stare into your irises. what are you thinking of today? when I think of you, I wonder if anyone still remembers me. once again, the morning intrudes past the boundary of the curtain. it
-
at the burial of cliches the storm brewed in a teacup. stirring it you reached for sugar. dressed in black, we’d come early for the opera. sitting in potholes where her voice wouldn’t reach us, the flower on your breast is undressed with mud. a tragedy, a tragedy, O it’s one we could not avoid.
-
pretending anger crouched in a corner and watched from shutter-blind teeth the unwilling spreading of a smile control. control sits in the rolling chair writing swear words in cursive. in the same room we both pretend to be uninterested and let the flames lick away at our fists.
-
crystalline- which was our bond surely eternity must have been erased when we crossed the line in the wake of our collapse you forcefully shed my skin surprisingly it was all just as expected: my true nature – it remains too beautiful too beautiful for you to behold.
ugly stage 