I’m Trying To Dig Myself Out Of This Hole I’ve Found Myself In But The Dirt Just Keeps Falling Through

What a view to wake up to - Sapa, Vietnam

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black lips

five weeks before you broke my heart, i had this dream where my father stood in front of me. two generations lost in close-knit shadows, facing the other in the midst of a nightmare & staring deep into the vortex of each other’s eyes.  

in a rusty voice, he recited to my face every lie he’s ever told.

his childhood, the seize, the running, my mom, his misery.

in the rhythm of his words, in the flow of his lies, his lips began turning black.

Lie      after               lie, his lips, a shade d   e      e         p            e               r in the obscurity.

turning my back on this show proved useless, as my neck was stiff & my legs, knee-deep in thick soil.  

stare & listen, while tears water the ground

i tried screaming, as to suffocate the torture of his words with my own shriek. but my mouth was sealed closed & my hands, disloyal to my commands.

i woke up a fountain of cold sweat, sobbing.

….

two nights before we murdered our love in cold blood,   we met for drinks at a bar à vins. the gleam in our eyes yelled to the entire world how traces of ancient grapes ran in our blood. god were we playful while life was onto us.

sneaky little romance

we talked about it all that night: gravity & flying,      friction & fire, language & riddles. for the 500th time, you corrected my pronunciation of the letter u. & in the stretching of your mouth, i fell victim to the evident art in your beauty; jawlines dancing in perfect rhythm; an enigmatic symmetry traced in your face.  

on our way home, we walked the streets as if sidewalks were made for peasants & we had just been crowned kings. laughing,    stumbling, holding onto each other.

in a deserted street, you wrapped me in your arms while murmuring in a secretive voice:  

i love you

we both smiled.

& under beams of moonlight, while my eyes hunted for your eyes, i noticed red wine had stained your lips black.

- @skinthepoet

skin the poet

skin open the poet to find out how books have been deceiving you: not all hearts pump blood; some, expand in rhymes & contract in line breaks.

skin open the poet to confirm the rumor that between the liver & the spleen lives a tiny being; an imp, absent in daydreams -a social drinker- & a lover of the sax.

1.- take the poet's arm, & rip off a tear of skin. behold a waterfall of metaphors soak your shoes in summer's breeze.

2.- on a surgical table, lay your poet down in such way that his pointy nose threats to drill into the ground.   & with the help of a sharp knife, split the meadow on his back into two nations that might have lost it all in war. proceed then to spread open these lands, & discover that a poet's spine abides as marble columns once did in falling rome: oh the burn or the glory? 3.- light a match & heat the poet's earlobes to 95 °. careful, the smoky smell of blue winter shades might stupefy your brains   whilst the poet's head gets caught in flames. if so: no stress, your poet's mouth muscles might stretch into a smile, but do keep in mind it's just an involuntary contraction. or not.

4.- once the fire's out & the buzzcut's ready, grab your baseball bat & crack the poet's tibia by the half. hollow bones & secret chambers. see that rolled up paper hidden in there? take it out & read it to the skies; correct, it is nothing but the transcripts of the poet's conversations with the moon. tally marks for bleeding hearts.  

5.- as a final act of this medical extravaganza, severe the poet's head & hold it between your hands. do you feel it slowly floating, as if being drawn toward the clouds?   stitch the head back in place using a silver needle & a thread of slurred speech. remember poets heal on empty illusions & broken things.

that is all for poetic anatomy 101...   ...now wake up the poet.

- @skinthepoet 

but how Great would it feel to be someone’s first choice

damn

the dirty & the imbecile

my heart, falling victim to a kidnap my own head had devised,

cries a thousand fears under a flickering lamp.

my heart, freed from a crime my own head once orchestrated,

sings hallelujah in the rain.  

- @skinthepoet

back in paris. 22 ideas for poems & short texts. massive amount of work for the upcoming months. im v excited to deepen on these thoughts. 

Elliott Erwitt. Mexico. San Miguel de Allende. 1987.

Tell me, Atlas.