For Faty, wherever I may find him

You said you think I write well

Now you have me staring at my chipped nails.

I'd like us to have memoirs like ice-cream sticks

That we can laugh at and reminisce fondly.

I could sing you verses about my longings

All the clouds that burst and you rained down 

But they would not be

Unselfishly
About you.
Only about my fatal obsession of you.

I tune out the traffic singing behind you
And think, you are the crooked junction
That I repeatedly try to find my way across
An encryption that I coded myself, and then forgot.

My fragile eardrums tingle with your questions
I think you are, where mathematics fails
And I take to philosophy.

Faty's Sing

I like singing to you
When the curtains glow softly
To the night of red and weariness.

They sing along too
The people who live in the trees
The gentle ghouls and witches without claws.

I like singing to you
When the warmth of your fingers
Closes around all frigid draught and monsters.

They sing along too
Wailing fervently, melancholy
You'd think they would make me weep, but no.

I like singing to you
When you make me furious
And blood drops to my bristling collarbones

They sing along too
Begging to claw at your chest, draw
Your heart out and down my barren throat.

I like singing to you
When you forget that I love you
And snip away the tentacles that are our senses

They sing along too
An uncoordinated mob of vain soloists
Gliding from ear to ear, hoping you will hear me.

Rage and revere

I am

The mediocre, non-awaited newsletter

Flapping foolishly in gilded cages

Curfews and hemlines to guard

A honor that never was.

I am
The presumed freeloader
Fumbling with technology
Rebel if I ride a dirt bike
Whore if i smile too wide
Plastic if I wear makeup
Ugly if I refuse to
Bad if I did fit in your cliches
Worse if I did not.

I am
The bird with the tethered wings who
Flew the airplanes you pointed at.
The one you asked to swallow
Not knowing she could bite too.

I am
The last pillar standing
Bathed in graceful smoke
Loving if I cure your fever
Stoic if I do your laundry
Leader if I sweep the stage
Dancer if I ran in sneakers
Beautiful if I broke all your cliches
Indestructible if I
Establish some of my own.

Tragedy

Tragedy

An epidemic of malice

The moist skin of orange frogs

Acid rain in churning hurricanes

Ladders and ropes 

Venomous snakes on royal cushions

Lone tunnels humming of runaway trains.

Words fleeing before they're written

Poisoned apples from fairy tales

Inky bottomless pools
Floods devouring barren mountains
Fires swaying to the beats of dry leaves
The company of stubborn fools

She seemed indestructible, refused to die of the above
So he killed her himself, killed her with love.

Moulting

If we ever meet again

You will panic and do a double take

I will politely offer that we get a drink

We can talk about the government

And the humidity and intersection that

They are taking so long to repair.

While our eyes do the real talking.

Yours will plead, darling 

I am sorry I poisoned the air in every room

That I locked and pinned you against the wall.

But be warned, only cold apathy will strut out

From mine,like in this moment right now

(Memorize it, for we are to never meet again)

Journal

The words will not

Will not

Write themselves.

Rain and sun alike will kiss

The patterns on your umbrella.

You will lose your enviable physique.

The delicate cutlery from the flee market

Will shatter like your coveted dreams.

But these words.

They will urge you endlessly

You will crumple up a dozen proposals

Find yourself hopelessly in love with the enemy.

Impressive bullet points will embrace

Your once wretched resume.

You will stop scoffing at rap music.

These words though

They will stomp and rage inside your head .

You will indulge in many kinds of stupidity

Buy lingerie from ludicrous catalogs 

Pigeons will nest on your windowsill,

And you will not wave them away.

Your staggering vocabulary will turn inside out.

And yet the words will not write themselves

When you get old and lay down to sleep

The suffocated and mutilated words will 

Creep up and kill you slowly. 

*************

An adieu

There was once a young man 

Who accused me of being

A humongous pile of cheesy love songs

With hair like straw infused with

Apple juice from expired cartons

He went on to say that drunken mice

Would suffer indigestion from the cheese

And throw up all over my hair.

(Here I am not clear if mice throw up at all)

Now to him I say, Aye, If cheese must

Go, go it will. Though its delightful 

Tang and silken heaven will dearly 

Be missed, the 'L' word shall be uttered 

With utmost discretion, this I promise.

And here it is, an adieu, to all thick

Clumpy and sordid. I ought to close 

This now, bare are the words I type

(Irony is that you try to change 

for the one you love)

Also, note I may have exaggerated a little :)