Heavy light bulbs burn my head:
An antenna for each ego with a pocket.
A chain in hand, a tag on the collar.
A street concert at the speed of sound.
Voices not heard through my ears:
A girl adjusts her talking mask.
A word of red gum repeats itself pink.
A coin not spared for silence.
Thinking gets me everywhere:
A man's scorpion fingers kill vowels.
A road is a row of dial tones.
A city vibrates, does not answer.
Novelty friendship tokens clip
on spaces folded by fashion
victims that tango with distance
holding it tighter and tighter.
Harmonic attempts at music
hang on to the sidewalk and
vomit invariable variations of
These steel boulders ooze edible rust
as a blessed homage to those of us
who slept with iron when greed was lust.
We worship blind electric whales
- our future bleeds, our backs we flail -
we work on ingredients tied to their rails.
The oil of heat, in metal, on meat,
instead of a taste, it gives us the speed
to feed every dirty coin with a heartbeat.
Mine are the limbs inside the machine.
Mine are the hymns it hums on a whim,
rhymes so human they are nearly a sin.
Poets and monsters I have never met
Gasp and moan at my face when I look
Under my eyelids for those last bits of
Make-up that keep me happy in this wetland
Where, with each timely-zoned second, a star
Is porn or dead by just the flick of a wrist.
Come noon, the news reboot my jobless state.
I wish my camera at least would love me
As its optic fiber teeth feed on the flesh
Of the daily special my body cooks up,
But its lens cannot upload my fragmented
Heart or uncompressed mind, for I will not be
Known beyond the lonely surface of my lips.
Come dusk, my damp studio freezes over.
I exist thanks to the soft light on my skin
Quincy is me squinting low at my keyboard.
Queen Z is she that commands every key.
I am both Quin and Queen, different sides
of the same mirror screen. I must be.
You are not more than me.
Neither real nor a dream,
You are me, no one else
but the Queen with a Z.
I am unaged, engaged
by reality, by flattery
- Mine are the many
men that send word of
brave (re)quests for a
petal of my attention.
After all, who are you,
but nature's way of
misspelling my name?
You cannot deny the fingers that
encode your eloquence nor the
eyes that connect the dimensions
of your vanity. Z was Quincy's pawn
before becoming an online Queen on
My incidental friends,
My only accident in life was one of fate
and not, in fact, this fatal fall I freely
chose to take - so, fear not for the soul
of your former fellow slave, for I am now
a Falcon of Pharaohs finally flying to my death
after four years of burial in this land of
sulphuric sand that salivates oil and sprouts
steel under the sound of sleeping tourists.
Some fault of it was mine, we all followed for too far
this forgotten fantasy in which we would feed
our families for a small working fee - how fooled
we were by smiling snakes and their associates
who step through spaces where freedom is frail
and steal our faces
Wipe your dust off from
Its smooth container
With a dry tissue,
Not your sweaty hands.
Place yourself among
Its series of plugs.
Feel the subtle smell
Of hardened plastic.
Deflate your chair
To an adequate
Height, so that your field
Of vision looks dead
Center on its screen.
Plant your feet, flatten
Your back, unclench your
Fists and rest your palm
On mouse or keyboard
Setting the pressure
From your fingers
To that of each button.
Adjust your brightness
And contrast values
Within the safest
Leave your volume
In mute and put your
Drive in read-only.
Now, turn your self off.
You sold your sleep to stand knee deep
in someone else's nightmare,
to fish for what disturbs the rich,
to drown all that is more than fair.
You sold your dinner going cold
to a man in a cardboard lair.
When hunters kill just for the thrill,
you rent your home to thousands dead.
When souls you lend no longer bend,
you turn their bodies back to bread.
You buy a piece of future pie
and future mouths remain unfed.
You and the Law are newly-wed
in an "unJUSTly MARRIED" car.
May your memory years go far,
may you choke on rings of smoke
from a child's hand-made cigar.
No, it is never about what they did to my body. What matters is that they never did anything to me, for I - with a capital "i" - was never there. I was only an exquisite piece of selfish gratification, a present that powerful man gave to themselves. It cannot be about that when you look at the mirror in the bathroom and see yourself as just another round white porcelain object decorating just another safe silent corner - not about that at all. What they did to my body was good. My older colleagues said that I would be fine and indeed I have grown up well. My body was always filthy to begin with and clumsy and dangerous and sometimes, when
This week, the amazing %Writers-Workshop (https://www.deviantart.com/writers-workshop)
wants to know some details about its writers:
:bulletred:What reason(s) do you write for?
For me, writing is a portable creative outlet: I can think about a poem anytime, anywhere and I can go over my prose with just a little notebook.Channelling my ideas into paper helps me clear my head and makes me feel good.
:bulletred:Do you take your writing seriously?
Yes, I do.
:bulletred:If so, when did you start taking writing seriously?
I realized that I could use the extra income since I self-published my "Dangers of Poetry". I've been dedicating more time to my writing, both in English and in
Today is the first birthday of what was once a small attempt at a poetry podcast. First, the poems were letters on a screen, then they were read into an audio file. Now, they have reached the offline world of paper and ink. Specifically, the brave new world of self-published-print-on-demand.
:bulletred: The Podcast :heart:
:bulletred: The Book :new:
This book is the result of two years dedicated to learning poetry. A lot of revision work has been done within the Writers-Workshop (https://www.deviantart.com/writers-workshop) and I've always counted on the support from the Writers-Club (https://www.deviantart.com/writers-club), PoetryPlease (https://www.deviantart.com/poetryplease) and the Inked-Page (https://www.deviantart.com/inked-page). The cover artwork was created in collaboration
Within one year, my little poetry podcast has seen itself printed. I'd like to thank not only all of my watchers, but also all the people at the Writers-Workshop (https://www.deviantart.com/writers-workshop), Inked-Page (https://www.deviantart.com/inked-page), Writers-Club (https://www.deviantart.com/writers-club) and PoetryPlease (https://www.deviantart.com/poetryplease). A special thank you goes out to my LadyEntropy (https://www.deviantart.com/ladyentropy) for the cover artwork. I love you all! :heart:
The following 35 poems have been published, most of them taken from my dA gallery:
:bulletred: A Mage's Diary
:bulletred: Orderly Fashion
:bulletred: Nameless Storm
:bulletred: Keeping Count
:bulletred: Forbidden Love