bad poems and broken garlic cloves
attempt at poem
jealousy has a smell
that has lived for
two days on the
tips of my forefingers
and my three thumbs
it doesn’t smell like
me nor does it have
my eyes but it has
inherited my obsession
over little things
its still there between
my toes hiding because
jealous women are un
desirable jealous women
are irrational and they
never have never will
have that thing you
want
this jealousy of mine
smells like garlic
and it is worse than a
mothers jealousy of her
little girls budding life
it is so much worse
because it leaves this
insecure hole of mine
gapping like a rape
victim and no matter
how much soap i use my
fingers still smell of garlic
so i try to feel better by
rubbing them unto the
wood of my pencil as i
write this
p.s.
hey
you
inta
yes, im speaking to you with no
love
i just wanted to tell you that
i am no longer
nice
nice women do not dance with the
moon
nice women do not make love like
the sun
nice women do not bathe in rivers
nor do they sing out of tune
as they drink extra sweet karkade
without caring
that a tiny drop of hibiscus
stained your denim
nice women build bridges on their
back bones
so you pass above the universe
untarnished
unspoiled
untouched by the soot of the world
below
and once you cross
nice women perk up
and rub your toes to sleep
now i just wanted to state this
nice is my past tense
and you may of course not believe
because you have drunk me sweet
but if you just take a moment
to remember
nice women's cunts
don’t smell like me
quilt
so a year from now you will
no longer
be on my mind
that's such a happy thought
i have a year
12 months divided collided
decided
so i can make you go away
from the roots of my hair
and the air in my lungs
sometimes i cannot breathe so
well
when i recall the months
spent
on your table open for
dissecting
waiting to be fixed willing
for
your scalpel to love me skin
first
and bone deep
but then i think they've
passed
so quickly - those months -
another 12 wont be so bad
maybe next december i'll take
out the stitches and cover
someone other than you
third
i want to write an honest
poem about my cunt
i have never written one
before
they say it is not easy to
write in the dark
my attempts keep failing
because i write
about my kuss in sunlight and
she has
been raised to come at night
or when
the light from the closed
shutters is
too dim to scare her
perhaps to be honest
i should say how prob
lematic it is to say her
name in my tongue and
to keep it scentless and
how i fear a meeting
when it will not be as
full as a peach cut in
half dripping in the
end of autumn
you see
even cunts get
emotional with the
change of seasons
to be honest one has
to say that the love
one is handled down
as a girl does not have
a trail below the navel
to build tracks requires a
hole lot of love a hole
lot of guts
so to be honest i can never
write a poem
between my legs without
conquering the
loneliness of being trapped
so far away from
my nose and eyes of having
only fingers to see
with
till then i will just write a
poem for my cunt
whom i haven't met yet but
we've shaken
hands on rainy days hoping
that we meet to the
music of her name and we
write a poem that does
not smell of cheese one day we
will write a poem
honestly
earth colors
the little sofa
in the parlor
is mine –
it’s the colors i
never wear – the
size i want to be –
the bed i cannot
fit my dreams in
its of no importance
failing to fold
my being into a two seater –
using the wrong adjective –
referring to a parlor this
pyramid apartment has
not known –
the sofa is still here
and I still crawl to it
after midnight
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