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

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


yes, im speaking to you with no love
i just wanted to tell you that
i am no longer

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
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


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


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

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

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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