Filterisity.Ashious.Psych.Pleurisy.

I spread these legs and the kissing lips mourn,

as if they are on a face,

as if both ends reaches the ears.

You know no woman’s lower body with ears, right?

Now that’s awkward. Now that’s tasteless.

And so let’s put thighs rather than ears.

Undressed lips stretched through my thighs.

The stretch feels like a virgin. It’s scrumptiously painful.

(A non-virgin forcedly abstained to be virgin.)

Now that’s appropriate. The vagina is now dignified.

My vagina isn’t a mouth,

but it chokes.

My clitoris isn’t a lip,

but it swell after a hungry summer’s kiss.

My vagina can’t talk,

but a man understands if its thirsty or cold.

They are dancing

playing with your eyes

illuminating your cloudy mind,

headlights are flashing

keeping the streets of your imagination alive.

Everything seems silent,

its just him

his calcu

and his dying pen

papers

and

numbers

and

equations

seem so ordinary

so monotonous

just sleep–

just sleep–

in the midst

of brain-wracking thoughts,

his emotions

ponder,

his rational mind

—just sleep

—just sleep

resistance

blocking

his tired

and sleepy mind,

a struggle

between

eyelids

to eyelids

for his head weighed

too much of

vanishing mathematics

until all he can think

is his woman,

shrouded by a piece

of cloth

in his mind.

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I
am
drunk
with
coffee
too
much
of
it
that
I
even
forget
how
to
put
sugar
in
love

At
the bottom of my cup
            your memory lies-
I will not stir,
I
will not anymore
                              –be sweetened.

Giving birth to words

is as peaceful as the stillness

of the night when there is no

bitter mint to be puffed.

Why I love to smoke?

It’s sipping a holy shit

puffing a beautiful poison–

to be burned with brimstone

for the inflammations of the throat,

or be boiled with mint

to help the pleurisy of the lungs,

to have minute-thought

of the guy I knew

who thought me music

I knew no nothing  of,

to listen to voice of smoke

clouding me—

with his face full of dreaming light

when he sang and smoke

(inside my closed lids)

a stick always gives me

a young voice

singing the poems I wanted

to write

leaving ashes beside

my heart.

I’ve been to the hole of madness and sanity.

They say its a mad woman’s quicksand
it swallows all it smells
every genitals and
sagging breasts and
silken legs and
twisted fingernails and
and cracking lips and
fetus
and
shrimps—

I stepped out of its mouth
with my dancing feet and
laughing hips and
screaming thighs
and
egg yolk and
saliva all over me—

There after,

I sprout
in the slides of poetry
to re-write a woman’s body.

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Falling

What i did for him i
do not know

but always, after he
had gone,

I found myself
sitting,

drained and silent,

in the stillness of
complete content-

dismissed and was
letting him go in peace.

I drew the old guitar
to me,

and set myself

to make a new verse
for a song

sung many aches ago,

Dreams gone with
the guitar’s echo

until the strings
fall mute…

the singing air
dies…the music—

 I leave
the song there

because a string
broke.

He promised

to bring me new ones–

next
ache he came.