The hair smell of mother’s November-illness,
nights have become a reminder of Bari Ami’s paralyzed tongue,
Two-hundred-miles away, there lives a man
whose ulcers are a threat to the growling stomach,
the girl who rescued herself through pills dances in the foggy front,
too much for the night to carry on its shoulders.
behind all soliloquies,
the fear of being caught-up naked is stronger than pain
caused in the name of love.
Spend another night,
with eyes wide open,
that you didn’t preserve
your lover’s caresses
in the jar of your body,
like those dead specimen
which amateur scientists
put in generic solutions,
for future experimentation.
that your memory betrayed
that you have survived
the blues and the bruises
Live on burnt fumes.
This is the excerpt for your very first post.
“I am not sick. I am broken. But I am happy to be alive as long as I can paint.”