If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love.
~ George Orwell

Saturday, May 21, 2016

Topography

The Dream (The Bed)
Frida Kahlo (1940)


My bearings have gone awry,
yet I must traverse this topography of pain

a needle in the lisping vein,
I watch the collapse, the blood beneath the skin
expands in rings of violet and green

the burn, the rasp of flesh, the cleaving
a landscape of ice, where oxygen smells sweet

then I’m dragged to another lucid moment,
pick the gravel from my cheeks,
drag cotton from my deepest wound

I will learn the lie of this land,
and gulp down acid despite the shrivel,
my pent-up whimpering has been brought to heel

but I do not know which way is north
nor whether I have yet to dodge the fate of ashes



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Get Listed: May Edition is hosted by Grapeling in the Imaginary Garden.


Saturday, April 16, 2016

No Love But Ours

Cosmic Voyage (1935)



We made love in deep space
and felt our bones turn thin as parchment,
muscles unbound by zero gravity

and our synchronised spasms
diffused from our particular brain waves
to travel beyond time’s continuum

our combined gasp for oxygen
reverberating against tympanic membranes
of stars long dead though their light

lived on in our veins, their elements
dissolved in the saliva beneath our tongues
as we kissed for the years of plenty

we left behind in our deepest sleep
the long drifting through vantablack, devoid
of all life beside our own, no love but ours

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Inspired by Izy Gruye's Soviet Kitsch prompt and written to the music of All India Radio.

A note on Vantablack.