“People look like flowers at last” – Bukowski wrote, and I believe it to be one of the best lines I’ve ever read. I mean, we can discuss about his personality, his vulgar tongue, his fake suffering, his unpoetic verse, but still, to write a line like this, you have to go through everything. I…
the cube that stands inside of me– spins, in the air with a dark deep water blue, it can’t be touched unless I stop it; not even by you.
I rarely dream when I am asleep,
blessed with Ananake’s touch
I compensate it during the day:
I don’t exist!
(even though, I am
pretty good at lying)
You can leave.
You can leave whenever you please.
And I will write poetry about you,
And about how things could be.
In a year or so,
I’ll definitely forget you!
Just like I had forgotten who you were
Before I had met you.
I could smell lavender under my chin, book, hands, feet, concrete; as I was staring six houses down where my neighbor who sells weed was playing with his doves just like he did when he was a kid and they flew… ah, they always do; joint in hand, he flew too.
when everything falls in place
people, words, memories…
and the thoughts that usually squirm inside out of everyone’s heads
cease to be, at that point,
right then! the idea of what we could become
dies with the human that is we.
it was supposed to be Summer
but it couldn’t be.
lights flickering far away somewhere were not lights
howls were fake cries at the carefree distant moon
bats were pretending to dance, going in circles
screeching as they flew,
and droplets of rain came out to play.