What I AskI ask them to take my poem,What I Ask3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
With a compassionate grasp,
Or a rueful fist,
Like one would take a new experience.
Extreme emotion is what I require,
A benefit to my hand,
Or to my heart,
Both in dire need of assistance.
But do not ask to witness my heart,
To bear my unprotected soul,
Just to look upon it with indifference,
As if it were just ink on parchment.
The Country I loveEveryone can tell you how much they love their countries.The Country I love3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
But each one of us, has his own way to see the country.
I will tell you about my country.
Here, where people have a million ways to look at it.
There are some people who reduce it in passport or an Identity Card.
There are those who reduce it in a piece of land they own.
There are those who picture it in a piece of cake, to devour whenever they are filled with greed.
They are those who would die for it, a thousand times a day, and nobody even notices them.
There are people who decieve this country, and spy on it,
In my country, there is more than just one country;
There is the country which is inside a pocket, inside a bank, and inside a heart.
There is the country that lives inside people,
And people with nothing but their address
Who is this country then? Who is this patrimony?
My country is a miserable man
Who smokes cheap tobacco
And drinks lots of coffee
Wires grow on his face
He doesn't shave his face every morning
YogaShe goes to sleep late.Yoga2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
She sits alone,
Listening to ambient-drone
In her midnight-blue room.
The desk lamp is a small star
In the corner of her dark universe.
She searches Wikipedia
For shades of blue.
She falls in love with
Celeste, cornflower, cyan,
Electric, Indigo, Iris, Maya,
Powder, Sky, Tiffany and Turquoise.
Awe-stricken by their
And the vacuum it creates
In her solar plexus.
She unfolds like a flower.
She imagines herself opening up,
A bouquet of dreams:
Also like a fluffy, white lamb
Beneath a beautifully crafted
And bejewelled sacrificial dagger.
In her mind she pinches
The petals of a thousand sherbet-coloured blooms,
Their biology presses back.
They do not bruise.
“What kind of
Do they practice?”
She wakes up late.
Alphabetical, By AuthorIn the groping shallows of every chest, they are waiting with daggers long renamed as switchblades by an unenthusiastic, literal generation.Alphabetical, By Author3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
They who speak through fleshy masks of breakable humanity.
They who choose the words which must be uttered for dramatic effect, pathetic fallacies and melodrama be damned like Lucifer and all poor devils doomed to drown.
They who are watching even now to ensure that I remain didactic and depressive in my phrasing.
They who would have me die of ravens while secretly despising Poe and all which follows in the suffixes
They who are me, and you, and every dresser-drawer and piece of wall left empty or exposed in a teenager's bedroom.
They who would have me end each sentence as if it were
Who slipped the flesh in shivering gasps from my 30 million mad comrades as they sang incomprehensible poetry to the ceilings of reason and rationalization until there was nothing left to stretch on writing desks, or to disguise the random assortment