She built you from clay.

She carefully shaped your limbs, your smile, your eyes.

She made you strong with fire.

And she told you, "You'll always be mine."

You happily believed it, 

For she had even crafted your mind. 

She made every little, beautiful thing about you.

She raised you right.

But your heart was out of her control.

And on one fateful night,

You met your doom.

You took her home that night,

Said you couldn't have imagined such perfection.

She put words in your mouth and you stripped yourself of any true love.

You unremorsefully said goodbye to your maker,

And walked off a cliff, holding the wing of your love. 

She laughed as you fell, and she flew too close to the sun.

There lie two blinded souls, bounded by the holy union of death.  

A floating spider web carried by the wind 

is ahead of me,

a flying potato skin, 

radio station frequencies,

hermit crab thoughts,

lip gloss in shady colors, 

politic narcissistic achievements, 

jailbait skinny infractions, 

mathematical problem books, 

a nihilistic point of view of birth, 

hanging gardens in tales from the past, 

a glowing stick, 

a thermometer under a child's tongue who called in sick, 

seaweed and seals, 

great mountain peaks, 

a salad bar, 

wooden spoons, 

Entwistle's bass riff, 

the thoughts of my divorced parents, 

the verses in modern rap, 

the beats in modern trap, 

a rat trap filled in with poisonous bread, 

the stinking cellar liquid, 

a spoiled girl trying to put on a Barbie's dress, 

a mistress in government office, 

the mother of birds, 

a cactae grown in an apartment, 

the coconut shell, 

the coconut water, 

fiber cookies, 

raw recipes, 

and a flag that stands out for a millennial kingdom, 

are ahead of me. 

Only a bubble filled with dark gas, 

rooted in a jellyfish dream, 

always sinking

in the collective thought of mice society, 

inside an empty can of chicken soup, 

were left behind. 

Oh time burdens me to breathe ahead and behind, 

will I arrange my personal bible in alphabetical order? 

or chaotic stripes printed on my back, 

will carry the truth, 

of all that's past

and anything to come. 

Light beacons, 

scented candles, 

swollen torches, 

buried in mystique. 

The shade arises as the sun goes down, 

the shade arouses when skin is fertile, 

the shade's romances in memories catalogue, 

an impression of me carrying a bag in the peak of twilight. 

Through the hole of an empty bottle

a rolled parchment paper contains

a list of past afflictions made

by the firstborn of our family:

1) I was born here, not there.

2) I grew up here, not there.

3) Problems grew with me, here. While I was wishing being there.

4) I went there and it wasn't what I expected.

5) The postcards sent showed a paradise beach, but when I reached there was just a blasfemic preacher thorning minds with verbal misery.

6) The giant palm trees were doomed, and so was I.

7) Nothing there to envy but the gone past.

8) Tortured minds of tortured children torturing cats and dogs and birds and strange coastal flowers.

9) Never ending heat.

10) My tears were vapour.

11) People stared when I wore long socks.

12) Forty days later there were still stories about plagues. I realized the plague were their minds.

13) Iconoclast slavery everywhere. I still didn't understand who that old man wearing gold threaded robes was.

14) Fifty days later I saw here. And she was plagued. Our children plagued, all but one. Henry. Our firstborn.

15) We both hid and were immediately found by the priest. Fucking old jackal.

16) The taste of rum sickened me, but the effect was the only reason that kept me alive for the following weeks.

17) There was a voice in the prison gutter. A voice I found familiar. My hair was grey. My hands were striped. The chains were rusty.

18) I escaped and found the beach filled with bodies, and the bodies filled with flies.

19) I came back to prison to liberate the gutter voice. It was Henry, he grew up as the only free mind in this island.

20) I was old now. But he was a strong adult. There were little boats. He took one and went away.

21) I went to the rum cellar again, to drink loneliness till death.

22) The bottle's now empty and there's nobody left to grief with. She's gone, her body's gone, Henry's gone and I'm alone. Me and the island, alone.

I rolledthe parchment back to the bottle

I felt weak as I tasted my tears

I remembered that now and then

I sometimes drink alone.

Winter's cold breeze gives what it takes, and we were set on a single floor house with a courtyard in between. Generations come with a different number of children. Grandma had three: my father, my uncle and my aunt. My father had two, my uncle and aunt each had three themselves. At that time we were eight grandchildren, two male, six female. Grandma got sick and lost her ability to move, or talk, or even to breathe. But sickness respected the light in her eyes. It was Sofia's birthday, the firstborn of my aunt. And she was always particularly connected to Grandma, she looked a lot like her when she was young. That day, instead of cake or alcohol, we had numerous gnostic and catholic rituals to wave her soul away. She held on to us until she heard the last words from all of her grandchildren. I told her that I loved her and that there's nothing to fear. She was spirit strong, that led to a successful fifty year marriage, 'til death did them apart. 

We kept her for another day in the deathbed, her sisters came from the city with their children (all grown ups) and some of their grandchildren that were close to her. They all waved goodbye to a peaceful looking beautiful corpse. It wasn't agonic to anybody, but it was kind of sad to all of us. She had a glass stand filled with toy frogs and ornamental frogs. That was her leap. I closed my eyes and saw essential light spores jumping with grace taking the form of a frog straight to a big white star. Then it was all tears and liquid laments. 

The discovery day came with the funerary service taking the body case of my grandma away. Between the wrinkles left on the bed, I found an egg. And it began cracking lightly. A little amphibian face looked at me, with the same look grandma gave me when I told her not to be afraid. It was kinda like a frog with little feathers on it. The sky outside the window was clear. And I thought clearly for the first time in days. I took the feathered frog within my hands, we heated. It tried to jump, but was still a little baby creature with no developed survival abilities. I took it to the roof where I looked at the stars. I lived on a city with no visible sky, and I loved to see the sky every time I visited my grandparents. For the time we were there, the feathered frog and I, taking a deep look to the shiniest stars, it had developed greater feathers with a golden tint on the tiny hair that feathers have. It jumped from my hands and expanded a hummingbird like wings, landed on my cheek and whispered to my ear in some language foreign to mankind. I took it with my hands once more, it stared into my eyes, gave me a smile and flew away into the sky with gracious movements until it was just a tiny spot disappearing between the stars. 

That moment I realised that stars are alive. And I also realised that my Grandma is a big one, the one that looks like a feathered frog, always in a leap. 

Boiled stem

embodied lichen

growing under my skin.

Dreaming of heat

and sun withered weathers

flying from the cold

in glue pasted feathers.

I found the core

of saddened flow

the rain of my rivers

that turn from red to blue.

Always carrying a stone

even in hanging cliffs

everywhere that drones

as hangover spheres that once were riffs.

Why is the sad song flowing

as it was myself?

Who killed the muse?

Who was the founding father

of violent abuse?

Who gave them shelter and old sweaters?

Who drained the cold of forsaken labour workers?

Where is my beer?

Why are there berries in the garden?

Who commenced the yihad against protocinycall preachers?

Who lifted the sun for us?

And why do we rest in shade?

Tell me why,

its laid

as a kidney stone

under my skin.

Tell me why,

we can't ascend

without heating laughter

right into the happiness cloud.

i.

daughter says to darkness,

let me go.

my glory is not yours for the taking.

yellow eyes glaze over her body.

he cracks her covenant with bare fists—

i will settle for the rest of you.

ii.

speak of the day you died,

he begs.

tell me of the day the serpent swallowed you whole.

i tell him,

it was a day like any other.

bells chimed at 10:30 as i awoke to the smell of hot oats

and buttoned my blouse until i resembled a holy child

worthy of what i dubbed snack time

but my mother called communion,

better than any other bread.

i lived as a cherub, swaddled in egyptian silk

with a lion’s heart,

an oxen’s wealth,

an eagle’s strength,

and man’s flaws.

i had a dream i smashed a stained glass window with a rawlings baseball bat

because i wanted to know if god’s house was as tough as i was

and i made it a reality

when i watched the mosaic of veronica’s veil shatter.

weak.

the naked light scalded my skin, burned these jaded eyes,

but it did not touch these bones.

was the sunlight not strong enough to reach your heart?

not strong enough to penetrate this ravenous wolf’s sheep's clothing.

iii.

why must you hate a man you’ve never met?

why ask if you know the answer?

every time i'm told to pray

someone's tumors are in the process of turning malignant

so i tend to equate god to cancer

and when the priest found out i was gay

he pulled me aside and told me it's okay,

we all make mistakes and sin sometimes.

he told me not to worry

because he's just like me.

see, he's a glutton for india pale ale

and i'm a dyke who eats pussy.

but he wants to fix me,

so i let him,

and when he thrusts

and i quiver,

i feel like judas

taking one for the team of twelve disciples

whom knew at least one jericho was destined to fall.

iv.

ways to go:

-sink my lungs in forty nights' worth of water

-build gallows in the bedroom and allow gravity to snap my skin

-divine death (pray god strikes me with lightning)

-let him touch me again

v.

murderer asks martyr,

who are you doing this for?

martyr replies, i am doing this for myself.

murderer says as he cocks his gun and takes aim,

how selfish.

i’m doing this for someone else.

We were born as dust

embodied with seeds

straightened as roots grew

multiplied as wind blew

alphabetized by sun and water

and time

running as we're still

waiting for the moonlight

to rest

that's made manifest.

Outnumbered by our own

mid twenties bankrupt babies

crying for job spots

as we were cradled for bigger things

like music for shadow dancers

or night tempered alley performance

but that won't pay

as words don't pay

as filthy governments won't pay

for beauty or harmony,

all is reserved for business

adding zeros to their numbers

as zeros naturally grow in stems

and olive leaves cure headache

that job seeking gives

that's made manifest.

Ecological thoughts

in economical structures

they forgot the numbers

in multiplying roots

hollow sentences

in forsaken harmony

found between black and white

between C and C sustained and A

and F and english breakfast tea

and black coffee and a sour treat

grown in trees

fallen into our hands

while we were thinking gravity

that's made manifest.

Insurance won't cover angst

or depression

or passion scars

or elite art pissing in dark alleys,

but a broken leg is a bigger issue

than sadness in a broken tissue

or everything that drowns

in seawaves and philosophy

inside an empty check

inside an empty bottle

draught by an empty young man

reading an empty manifest

about misconceived things

inside an empty structure

that's also made manifest.