Who is he

They keep asking me

to describe you

but you

like the wind

indescribable

precious

small

tiny

looking up at me

Puss-in-boots

eyes

dark hollows

of comets and comics

black snake moans

bears in caves

roaring

raging

you hold the world

within the palm of your

torso

a Sufi dervish

levitating and rotating

meditating on my existence

I drown my ice-cream sorrow

in your eyes

and sink

my navel

in your ganache

Spartacus-like conquests

and confetti parades

rainbow flags

and tattered tops

frits and fritters

all things beautiful

Holding my first Golden picture book

Tasting my first cum

syrup

fiascos and tacos

crunchies

scrunchies

baguettes

smelling like my mother's oven

back in the old house

Your love is like a Golden picture book

drawings vintage and ethereal

cakes untarnished by modern cooking utensils

your love is floating volatile

vapor on crusty neighbors

windows

wipers

growing diapers

vines in the trunk

of abandoned Cadillacs

your love is a track

on which my midriff takes an afternoon walk

good wine sipped

by the Nile

on a lazy day off work

They ask me why I loved you

how does it feel to love you

but garnish aside

I love you like my first picture book

of fairy tales and faunas

bathroom Catullus

raspberry biscuit

and vignettes

Dance

baby

Dance

This body

is meant

to float

they tie

weights

to your calves

hammers

to your bones

nails

in your midriff

clamps

in your thorax

but you dance

baby

dance

your body

battered

broken

and feeble

bones irregular

and steep

but mine

I can

hold it

in my womb

I can hug you

warm

so shake the shackles off

the iron maiden

out

the sneering leprechauns

can't stop you

dance, baby

dance

Angel of Darkness

Dance

Mama

Serve me that plate full

of night soup

Pour it down my throat

cover me

I want to sleep

full

after nights of hunger

and flapping fins

of Flounder-like dreams

caught in a net

or Black Sabbath guitar shreds

Mama

I need some night soup

Pour it

down my throat

I need

night soup

Pour me some chowder, Mama

Pumpkin soup

hot and saucy

something spicy

that Moroccan concoction

you made us

last supper

Judas can drink from my palm

turn up the volume

let me hear you

I'm losing grip

on this trip

down memory latte

Fried and battered

soup with chunks of meat

or chicken

I want to forget

those hungry nights

Now I can drink night soup

Mama

and think

not of someone

but of pearls and twerks

like Miley Cyrus

in a club

where I could be Abaddah

and shower hot girls in G-strings

with Alfredo roman springs

and casseroles

smelling of beer and crisscross

fear

Lying down a shade

or up the umbrella

beach abandoned

a face mutilated with stinkin' fear

or crab cake frowns

Mama, night soup tastes amazing

Doctor's orders be damned

I'll drink night soup and sleep

wet corners of my lips

smiling a shade of blues

Like the inflation

power strikes

and fills the cracks

with loads of booze

and used gumshoes

Power is a Pufferfish

that tastes like rubber

broken and stubborn

like the clubber

in a death song

Dead club

Finnish rock band

commanding an ovation

like matriarchs of ostracization

Power is all the corkscrews in place

destined to replace

old hip cartilage

brain hemorrhage

jargon and garbage

filling the voids of a mind

so high on abstracts and mileage

Please, pardon my lack

of coherent snacks

I've just had a bout

of fresh power

served on a platter

seared with honey and olive oil

Someone offered us a seat

on a plane so neat and fleet

corn dogs in the heat

mascarpone webbing fingers

for a mad scientist torturing zygotes in the seeds

of humanity's cruelest punishment

Power is when your eyes are taped shut

so that you don't look into mine

and send chills down my spine

breaking it in half

paralyzing my sleep paralysis nightmares

flying spiders and gargoyles

toilet paper and hard-boiled

tampons

straight out of a furnace

If power is a Pufferfish

then I'm full, baby

I'm full

ready for the night

in a dress too tight to get out of without breaking a bone

or stealing a scone

your eyes are diamonds

but my hardworking hands

turns diamonds into thick bread crust

and dust

When you went to the ruins

Did you see yourself

or someone else

When you went to the ruins

Did you see your scars

or form new ones

When you came to the ruins

you didn't wear black

The ruins have many kings

O... Alexander

Have you been here before?

My life is nothing

but a flame in the ruins

My life is nothing but a pillar

Does that make me...

a filler

basking in the shade

of a pillar

Half bent

ready to fall on their heads

I went to the ruins and saw myself

My life is nothing

but a ruin

it's in it

remnants

of myself

In this life

there is nothing but this beautiful catharsis

nothing

but a veil

on their minds

their hideous glares

stares or casual snares

huh

sneers and snares

My life is a ruin in progress

I went to the ruins

and saw myself

Sour cream

I can't love you

if you taste like sour cream

it hurts my fingers

to touch

you

I can't love you

if sourdough

is what you offer me

for breakfast

I can't

I can't

Your taste

stands

at the tip of my palate

I try to swallow

but not

the least bit

rests in my stomach

What heart

do you possess

what mind

what soul

I eat that brain

and smell though testicles

but still

what's missing inside you

is a heart shaped hole

a cave

to bury my secrets

your sorrow

bursts in my face

like D'Vorah

But I'm Mileena

I'll eat your throat

I'll munch on your pumpkin-carved misery

your bow-shaped lips

cupid-shaped ass

You're not so delicate

but I am cookie gone wrong

too much flour

too much water

too much energy

lost in a water pump

a stomp

on a foot

in a hut

made of soot

Please

turn off the light

I need to go to bed

naked

but unlike Ms. Monroe

I ain't swallowing no pills

no phone hugged between my bare breasts

I taste our last phonecall

but nothing fills my mouth

but sour cream

sour lemonade

sour coffee sugar rice

spice

electricity on ice

Alucard is Dracula spelled backwards

Did you know that?

That time of the year

love hits

like a trumpet

like a flame

a broken tooth

and I'm left

broken and nose-bleeding

on the ground

looking up

and you're there

like Candy fucking man

hook for hands

bees for kisses

Playing victim doesn't suit me

it's that time of the year

last year, love was a neonate

a fraternity baby

who thought he'd milk my boobs

for success

people to know

girls to fuck

scripts to sign

circles to enter

Armani suit borrowed

few words picked off my scent to impress the studio execs

this year, love is a tall, powerful

legomaker

but this year

I'm taller

a woman with a Ruger Mini-14

I'm pointing it at you

like a sexy Hollywood movie

two hot assassins

except I'm short

and I'll hit you at the knees

you'll fall

and I'll lick the blood off your pussy

I'll sing to you

this glass of whiskey

dry

going back and forth

you say I love you

but love is a dangerous game

no rifles between us

we're a match

I'm no match for you

you're no match for me

It's different this time, baby

you can shoot me in the eye

But I will sleep at night

knowing business is what keeps us awake

but no longer a fuzzy pillow

no dreams of a dreamy girl

with dark chocolate wild hair

and dark eyes

your skin doesn't incite hunger in me

and even if it does

I know how to seal my hole

and pet myself to bed

Why should a poet carry bags

breaking at ends

Why should a poet use plastic wrappers

Why should a poet bend

down on all fours

if not for a fuck

but for a scrub

Why should a poet give a damn about rice

Why should a rice kilo differ to a poet

than a bee passing by

Why should a poet give a damn

how much rice is there

in the supermarché

à la grecque

Why should a poet wonder where to go for milk

compare cartons

when a poet could spend nights on their back

watching stars

blowing smoke into airs

wondering if one last puff

could really break their cuff

A poet

is a poet

and rice

is a lot of things

a sack

a packet

a meal

a soup

a stuffing

A poet is not Christmas socks

is not a meal

Why should a poet carry grocery bags

A poet is a good daughter

a dutiful son

a loving husband

a caring wife

A poet is none of these

Why would a poet give a damn

about

rice

things fall off

fresh off the mud bath

naked but hurt

flayed and burnt

if all my skin gets flayed

what do you get

what do you get

something left

on the borders of skin and flesh

fragments of bone

run your finger on that groove

that hill ain't too steep

something left

a wave so awakened by the touch

from someone

whose blindfold fell off

revealing eye cavities

defying gravities

give me your eyeballs

and I'll lend you my ears

tell me stupid stories all night long

I'll run for a night out with the dolphins

I need to exist

within the confines of my body

fear of owning to my shit

Laughter

hahaha

what a coward

hit me

that fist hitting my cheek

cracked skin

used to that

not the first time I've been hit

by a wall of brick

But this time

I'm wearing my finest tank top

dining out with the boo

kissing a snake

but poison doesn't catch my breath

neck swollen with bites

lungs filled with water

mites all over legs

need a shaving appointment

no waxing

my fragile skin won't take it

leave a mark on my thigh

lower back all the way down

asshole under a field trip of mice

sparks

Skin falling off

the snake changing colors

But for the first time the snake doesn't fear

the reaper

blow blow

row row

smoke into snow

one bite and smoke is gone in thin

crispy crunchy air

clouds like cotton

candy like buttons

The snake changes course and paths

The skin is a mirror of scarred ammunition

pull the trigger

pillow over mouth

breathe into Casper domes and killer gnomes

I'm not your fucking Barbie

I won't wear grandma's veil

My mascara always smeared

my Arab world femininity problems

running after me

like Hell hounds

Harleys in Hawaii

I'm too powerless to stop

those prawns

and wedding dinners

bells ringing

craws singing

Birds barf

into the glass cups

of non-alcoholic sugar troughs

castles built on whims

of Satan

kisses spent on nights

spartan and mystique

like mastic in a rice cup

wedlock hammock

something so fragile and borrowed

it stains the ceremony

I turn around

tear this corset

my arms hurt from raising them too long

those dark spots

need some epilation

radiation

detector

everything borrowed

and never returned

but refusing to submit

or take a spank out of spite and cakes so spiked

they taste like showers of coke

sprite and drupes

smother my dress

smear my tear

my lipstick stuck up my ass

I pray something happens

before the wedding bells go off

and I wake up

to find your ghost haunting me

across the hallways

like the motherfucking nun from the Conjuring