Colette’s Mountain (Before the Idle Days)

•July 11, 2017 • Leave a Comment

March 20, 1984.

and we lay in a bed
of spring flowers.

my dress,
wrinkled on the floor,
and the light
of an idle morning in venice
highlighted the silk
stained with the consequence
of love.



•July 5, 2017 • Leave a Comment

“If you look backward, you see a nightmare.
If you look forward, you become the nightmare.”
I, in arched lips,
watched passions die,
saw the beasts swallow their eyes,
justifying to the world why they’re blind

with deception that bled red smoke
digging its way into the soil,
nestling into our very existence, it coils
in our lungs like a parasitic host

so we inhaled the carbon truths until our throats were clattered,
and scraped our necks until they were bare and battered.

and the beasts still spoke, and we waged wars,
carbon-stained liquid gushing from silent cores,
marking the skin of deceived minds—
“it was for the sake of our pride” that we

traded lungs for taut drums, for eyes blanketed with pyre—
let the liar smoke to the bone, let him choke on his noose
knit from a steel-spun reel of ruse
until our souls turn skyward, set loose.

we hoped for a utopia and trusted the blind to march us through,
and mourned, with blood-caked throats, the days we lusted for a promised life, man-made.
we deserved for our ashes to be scattered on peaks
for we saw the hatred as it grew,
so we crawled, breathless, under the acid rain, hoping it would wash our souls anew.

5. Secrets, whispered No.2

•April 5, 2017 • Leave a Comment

he breathed five words into my ear,
“i’ll wait for you there”

then slept forever.

4. Love

•April 5, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Played around with rhyming words though it wasn’t my first intention but why not.

Your body is a temple and i,
a desperate sinner crawling into your shrine

i kneel before the tenderness of your flushed breasts
and the velvet lips mumbling prayers, staining my chest

you love the way i lie, and i lie
beneath the curves and your whispering eye,

you moan deep under your breath to my tongue-slips
and my most meaningless chatters—

confessions and dark matters,
darker than the darkest of night,
our bodies ripple against the dim red lights—rhythmic like a religious chant,
divine like god, blessed by a devil that settled inside our hearts—i twist before your heaved moans;
you are my exorcist, washed out of sin and carved from roman stone.

you play my silent flute and i am a krishna at your feet.

craving the sweat trickling down your frame,
i gather the drips with my trembling lip like holy water
cleansing me from fear and shame
and when the hymn is over i lay you on my torso
like the holy book, one last prayer
for my atheism to be shattered and shook.

3. Prayers

•April 3, 2017 • Leave a Comment

i found god in him one night when i had too much liquor on my lips,

he said: i’d like to hold your frail frame in my palms
and read your tattoos like the bible

he lit a candle or two and pressed his chest against mine
‘til the wax melted down and scarlatti ran out of sonatas to recite,
‘til the sun rose through the window behind him,
holy like a halo, made him angelic –
lay in silence and pride,
‘til we couldn’t mumble any prayers no more.

2. Highway 70 to Topeka, Kansas

•April 2, 2017 • Leave a Comment

i knew god had died

when i fell to the bathroom floor,
blood staining the tiles under cheap flickering lights,
gapped mouth and pinned like jesus

while you went out for a smoke, adjusted your collar,
and drove off in my car.

1. Night of an Atheist [NaPoWriMo 2017]

•April 1, 2017 • Leave a Comment

she was dressed in her linen robe,
half-naked underneath and resting in her chair
brushing her red hair

– the chill seeping through the creaking door
as he opened it made her so delicate fingers
tremble and she put the comb away.

– stepping in, he watched the candle light
flutter on her cheeks lips and collarbone
like a butterfly on rosebuds.

he unfastened her robe and
let it slip off her shoulders.

she smiled.

her shoulders quivered
within his warm palms and
he kissed her neck

where the cross hung just above her breasts.

why do you still wear it?

he held it with the tip of his fingers.

it doesn’t mean much to you. why should you
care? her eyes, so bright and almost colorless in the candle light.

it does to you. I reckon when I walk out of this door,
you shall pray for your god’s mercy?

she stroked his cheek, her lips
gently rolled over his like lake-ripples.

shall pray for you
to find peace.

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