La Jacaranda

March 26, 2013

Here,

the wind is a ghost.

Even the birds are shy

of the oppressor sun,

and its duality.

It seeps,

the oblivion of color

into canopies above,

and all I do is

close my eyes

to search for your face.

 

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за страдания

March 18, 2013

Picking at the Pith

March 18, 2013

One day,
my veins will appear as a weft.
I will wear the scars like a tyrant.
I will arbitrarily clack away at old pianos.
I will fuck younger men.
And be the last one laughing left.

One day,
perhaps sooner than you might think.
I will not listen to a word you have to say.
I will run my fingers through your hair.
I will be dead tomorrow.
And/or perhaps just need a drink.

One day,
not so very long ago, really.
I was walking under a cherry tree.
I was attempting to place a sound.
I was thinking of the green guts of webworms.
And how as a child I’d push sticks through their castles,
and watch them collect on the ground.

The water travels through my hair,
pulls it around my face,
as I reach,
to hear,
through
a foggy cavern of nudity,
a voice carrying
[muffled]
I let it enter
a part of me
that is wilting.

It is small and thin
I hold it to my bristled skin
just like a little bird
I shiver around it.