Delay: a found poem

after Apis

Neurons to nirvana
serotonin produces in the gut
orgiastic sexuality
dislocated
pineal gland
a little beacon
the modern guide to everything
on earth–
Birth/Life/Death
marking the time of culmination
Air/Fire/Water
moonstones
citrine
aquamarine
coming of a renaissance
delay is the deadliest form
of denial

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Subject matter

My multiplicity can attract that which I want, but not what I needed. How possible is it to love someone so completely, they simply can’t die? Immortality or reincarnation,  possessing a love of some kind of divination. An aged rite capable, and in itself a strong aphrodisiac. And for every atom of him as well belonging to me now, knowing all of his Demons and can call them by their names, they cast strange shadows, particularly in my blind spots to remind me they wished to be freed too. A love below calls out to them. A femininity of Yemaya y Ochun that is red and bulging, filled with waters that can be calm as a serene river or devastating as a tidal wave. I hold this femininity in my heart and it shines like an amethyst. I can be indecisive, rippling or crashing in every direction, yet my heart remains stoic. He sometimes like to abandon and push away but I take no offense. I just bring him into my bosom and lay kisses to his forehead until I calm his needy abyss. This is our spiritual equilibrium. Spiraling out and into discernment. Will we unravel and deteriorate once we’re done?

Omission

how strangely we are persuaded to exclude things and people.
always in pursuit of redescription,
recognizing no position as final,
no bond as unyielding.
our lives, a performance piece
filled with new habits,
slacken foundations that are easily unearthed,
and creating forbidden things
in order to feel in control.
looking for absolution
and meaningful companions
to share our exclusivity with.
yet just as we are fickle and mortal
we want all things ethereal,
so celestial and refined,
deep and mysterious.
But we are none of those things.
personhood
being just an ornament on the tree of life,
no more will the fragility be ignored.

Poetic Blooms

imagesome kind of continual flux,
this human immobility,
falling and rising of the body,
blood
flesh
tendons
secretions
blunt teeth
compartmentalized conscience.
emotional hemophilliac
to be revised or expanded.
layers of lace
functioning under wading pressures.
a new moon climbs into the sky,
as does a new lover in my bed.
so superficial,
a God in blue threads,
with trigger warnings.
he would be the one
to drink up the ocean
and still wouldn’t be satisfied
I alone, a combustion of heat,
an Angel of molasses and honey,
the sticky kind of phantom
who would be mother of all waters
laying offerings at his feet,
together we can be
the owners of the sweet waters,
where the bees are swarming
around capped honey
begging to be tasted.
catacombs beneath blooming magnolias,
damask roses covering our insecurities–
ontological trampe-l’oeil
our hidden boundaries,
false perspectives
rendered  and embellished by nature
no matter that we are human
and meant to be loved
i let this new affair be cultivated,
deeply rooted and enchanted
by this new defining earth.
asking for something more imaginative
than love.

Lassoed

The thief in the night that everyone speaks of
is here
right beside me
in my bed,
powerless and hand tied.
I steal from him,
his love
his passion
his swiftly vibrato.
I engulf his existence in the daylight,
taking him from the darkness
where he preys the most.
And I take and take
making sure I leave my mark,
in honor of the things he may have confiscated
from sad girls in their 20’s.

Bone pile

There is no place to hide from the exploitation of life.
Pretty illusions and tarnish-rimmed struggles
have ruined us.
The taste of metallic on our tongues,
aging of our organs,
we deteriorate in our sleep.
While we’re making love,
while we’re on our way to work, we share our dying bodies
with the world.
Losing a lapse with memories,
our strained eyes give up on us,
liquefying reality.
We dilute the present to forget we have to die
but it doesn’t forget us.
It watches from a distance,
whispering to us in our lack-lustered days.
Death is our mother’s warning
and our Daddy’s silence,
it awaits us
holding no grudges,
for our disregard.

 

Oya

IMG_8476

My mother once told me to be sure
my coming was a sharp offense.
To drink and live what have destroyed some men.
She says, “We died a hundred times,
ate thunder and tasted the rain,
drawn down the moon
and called the sun by name.”
I kneeled at her waist as she anointed me.
She sang for the trees to awake,
to let them follow me to you and
let their branches sway like my hips
and chase your coloured phantom on the air.
She had said, once I found  you
to be all woman
of flesh
and blood,
and mystery.