My second poem written with the writer Martin Tobias Lithner,  + ++ congrats to him for the video. πŸ’™πŸ’™πŸ’™πŸ§š‍♀️🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️πŸ™πŸ™πŸ™

I'm thrilled about the results of this poetic experiment and the way our minds connected.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Image
  Birds are falling   I don't know where this night comes from A hole in the tissue. A crack where it leaks Oily and crunchy. A celebration. We parasitize Under its breasts full of black milk. Paul Celan said 'language is my country'.   I speak four languages but I am a stranger . A beautiful immigrant you can play with. A doll endlessly repeating   the same words. 'Mama' 'mama' 'mama'.   In my genetic code So many words entrenched (why do I fear them?) I look through a magnifying glass. I zoom and cut up. They retract. Such a tremendous surgery. I proceed with a delicate operation. Words keep coming back from submarines, undergrounds, dark corridors.   Obli -gation Vio -lence On -going process Oblivion. There is an error. Irrepressible. Error. organic as water. You rather take my hand. We'll play chess on the edges of memory.   Every time I win, you cut words. Every time you win I cut words. My organs are be...
Read more

She still has time

Image
Gone were the days when she lived by herself, with hundreds of books and the rest of paraphernalia of another world, all jammed in 28 square meters. Uncharted, munificent territories to explore. Now she enters the empty room through a smoke screen and looks at the leftovers she took: a smooth toothbrush, small debris of toothpaste between the bristles, a worn-out blue dress. She thinks: What a jest, what a jest, and here I am. Terribly alone. Terrified, yet unflappable, flustered. Hands folded, dry skin, eczema on her neck, tired and lugubrious dark eyes . She looks at her phone: it is bed time, sets an alarm. Nothing unusual, she could rest and think, think and rest. In 7 hours, he’ll be here. She thinks: He’ll come. Open the door, open the fridge, open the window- so many things to turn on and open except me. I am a glacial figure, boreal as I am, magnetized by my solitude, I am pushing the limits of my absence. I forget what his voice sounds like. Honeyed when laying in my arms, app...
Read more

Beneath her skin

Image
Photo: Ramona Aristide - Michelle de rose Photography  Beneath her skin-kinships-ships Still     so much             Stillness. layers of s i l e n c e building up.  bees  buzzing collect honey from the b l o o d   Beneath her skin war words swords.   In the mirror, two fluid bodies      collide and calibrate ebbing in the distance       of her eyes ice eyes on and  o f f.   We are bodies changing position         like floating letters- anagrams of flesh   I listen to her smell, as it falls and lingers on her flesh, for a while.   While peeling the pulpy orange squeezing a sticky juice and nails carving a poem in her skin.   I could stretch the w o r d s  like l e g s       Wanderlust between the cora...
Read more