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everything; something; nothing

I shuffle with the orthodoxy of a mountain and
the trees shiver their leaves
out of anxiety. They think of me. /

I bet a sure bet
that the two of us do not see
the same colors;
and since You do not exist,
I win. /

This is not spring. /

The bridge by Bel-Air says, “Je rêve de toi”
and I believe it.
(I only rant about my filthy self:
the way my letters
take a turn for the worse when
I begin to forget. I do not want to
let go
just yet.
I dream of him every once in a while
and he is still unchanged, but
he no longer remembers my taste.
Is this not a troublesome thought?
It is.) /

When a sleepless night
comes to me, we pray together.

I mumble: I hope that my mother
never finds my poems:
that is one class of nudity
that I do not want to attend.

The night whispers: I shall keep
thieving dreams
and letting them unravel
as secrets instead. /

I must be in a trance, dressed
in the habit of winter. /

The language of all eyes is merely a translation. /

White is not pure:
it is a puddle
with a thin film of volition
hiding me
underneath.

Did you not see that coming? /

Antigone, listen to me:
they do not want your skin for its reason,
only for the touch, only for the season. /

Roads turn into
rivers turn into
ravens turn into
remembrance:
a recycled yesterday. /

The sea only dances so inebriated
with life
because I feed it with my sorrow
and give it music with my eyes. /

[Question, oh question,
how do I forgive you?] /

Change is not always a destruction.
Sometimes, it is just a casual rendez-vous,
a futile meeting. /

PRAY FOR ME, FOR HE, FOR SHE
TO WHICHEVER GOD IS LEAST BUSY. /

I wear my naivete as a brooch,
bright upon my breast. Now, if it fails me,
I shall call it another
fashion mishap; walk on. /

I stand dressed in flames
contemplating the crimson of fiction. /

Shiva is the embodiment of a lust
so fluid that it drowns, dissolves me.

I scoff at the way that I wrap my
tongue about his name
and call it holy. /

The one truth that we are all aware of:
pain. Find evidence in the way
fetuses keep their fists clenched tight
for no reason other than premonition. /

I dress in blue to be further away from him, using color to feign distance. My hands remain unsettled. It was September then (two days ago), and we were strange and different and his touch became a compromise that I did not have to be making, but I did: because I am so weak in the knees and the click-clacks of his lips on mine sound like pleas. In another world, I would fold myself into him so well that he would not know where his flesh ended and mine began. In this one, though, the skin-border makes itself so apparent that I cannot help but wince. My feet are cold. I blame him, his stagnating desire. I do not wish to be cradled: I wish to be torn, then thrown. We cannot be. It is September still and I have never been more sure of anything inside of me.

Mouth brimming with words but not enough to tell him all of this. My tongue slips (onto his) and the only fact that I manifest begins to falter too. My body lies, my hands deceive. The next thing I know, we are bent into each other’s corners and his fingers. Soft, long strokes of green and the monsoon. Outside, a comptine. Inside, a temptress. Persephone. /

Milena,
estoy sola. /

Milena,
is it too late to piece
these fragments into
whole? /

Milena,
it is too early to let go.

a week ago, in a nightmare, I was being chased by a pack of stray dogs, them clawing and biting my legs; there were others there, but nobody to help, and I woke up from the intense pain. the morning after the dream, as I was walking out of my house, two of the stray dogs ran from where they had been sleeping and stared at me, set a cold fright into my chest. / going through old notebooks yesterday, I found that I had scribbled ‘THE HOUNDS, THEY KNOW’ on several sheets of paper, almost exactly a year ago. no explanation as to what they know or how. / / when life folds over on itself in such a way, origami pleats of coincidence, ink smeared from one side onto the next— an ourosboros devouring its own tail endlessly, skin on skin, I can only wish for steadiness in memory: to not forget, never. here, the strain of many months unearthed, here, a surrealism so large that it cannot be swallowed sans anesthesia ;

undressing with another,
and your ghost is the one layer
that cannot be torn off /

to wake up with sore limbs / and a memory red raw from / being touched so often

days when roads turn into rivers turn into ravens / all fleeing towards someplace else

viperslang:

Welcome to Cyberhex V1.0 : The Shamanic Narcotic
Featuring -
infinitesplinters
thesingersgirl
andlohespoke
tothecatcher
whoeverswinning
howitzerliterarysociety
mickeymichal
syntaxandsemantics
nectar-traps
ohgd 
dirty-soapbox
smartyrpoetry
mikeyj529
esn13
ohlookdonuts
indigenousdialogues
invinciblecharlie
kdecember
javacow
& some more breathtaking talent from the serpent slang of this digital Acephale as well as a personal interview with the internationally renowned photographer and visual artist kalliope-amorphous

“OFFICERS OF OUR GUERILLA MUST BE POETS.
THE AREA OF POETRY MUST BE CONSTANTLY RE-CREATED.”- Brion Gysin, Guerrilla Conditions

With Love,
Cyberhex Editorial Team



!!!

viperslang:

Welcome to Cyberhex V1.0 : The Shamanic Narcotic

Featuring -

& some more breathtaking talent from the serpent slang of this digital Acephale as well as a personal interview with the internationally renowned photographer and visual artist kalliope-amorphous

“OFFICERS OF OUR GUERILLA MUST BE POETS.


THE AREA OF POETRY MUST BE CONSTANTLY RE-CREATED.”

- Brion Gysin, Guerrilla Conditions

With Love,

Cyberhex Editorial Team

!!!

/ I bid farewell to the month
with the rain’s mouth
on mine on his :

he stitches lust into
a skirt
long enough to hide
his knees, and

I pry it off
with my teeth, despite
September’s warnings /

esn13:

i wish there was someone
in my life, who’d never
leave my side, who’d always
let me talk, who’d be
there for me forever;

or maybe i’ll be realistic
and just wish for
better weather. 

There are no records of the last few days: they have gone undocumented, uneaten. My mother placed the week on a plate and left it by my side; I had lost my appetite; my stomach growled an anthem that is unfamiliar to me. / She is gone now. The plate is empty. I am still not hungry. / I use a ruler to draw a straight line along the flat of my forearm, just to smear the ink with my other arm. A large block of the awareness of my own futility sits as a splinter in my cheek. Then, I would have tried to use my tongue to pry it out. Now, I simply keep my mouth shut. / This is where I come to scatter fragments of actuality, but I turn tasteless. The price to pay for nudity: being ogled without being seen. / After sunrise, I took a bag full of red petals and tipped it over into the river. A blessing in exchange for a blessing. Or something of the sort. / It is nighttime now and circumstances remain unswayed. / I am ugly with fatigue, once more, and line my eyes with black in such a way that it serves as an underline to my inability. I tell them: it is nothing, truly: I just died thrice before getting dressed this morning. They offer me a lap to rest my head on; I accept this offer to leech on their warmth. / All I know now is that my body is truth. All else is up for questioning, but what does that matter— I want only to position myself heavy upon you, to extract the swan from my breath and let her flutter onto your tongue. / In times of need, I rely on the ambiguity of pronoun. I; you; who? I wonder if my desperation is obvious in the way that I stumble through my words. One after one after one, with a limp. Milestones disguised as commas. / In a masquerade where nobody touches the same hand twice, I dance until blisters line my soles. And then I tire, retire; act surprised when nobody throws me over his shoulders when the orchestra has come undone. / I am an undine, limbs of water, split across the table, dripping to the floor, drop after drop after drop, with a limp, with a shrug. /

Reciting old stories through a new mouth,
like standing on ice
and calling it South.

/on fates & misplaced blame

/on fates & misplaced blame

Abandoned lines, stray
kittens in garbage heaps, rummaging
through the
stench of the many months
I threw away (but did not
dispose of properly.)

I used to contemplate
the dove in your
inhales, but—
you come from
the land of dappled hair
and apologies;

I have spent far too
many breaths
trying to unstring
myself from
that country despite the way
you stem
from its beds.

Oh, you, wet curls at the base of a neck,
forgetting you would be like
forgetting the nationality I derive
my language from.

And so, I must.

I rely on tomorrow
as if it hasn’t yet swallowed
its own tongue,

empathize with its thirst,
and wait.

(There, a mirage that is
worth the chase.)

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