E THEME BY EXCOLO

magnolia

there was nothing to see in her but the ebb and flow of creation, only the transcendent sweep of being and living in the careless fold of flesh from shoulder-bone to elbow.
#nofilter #nomakeup
I was struck
In a glass cubicle
Beneath a cascading tide
Peeling
Linoleum
Tiles. 
I was struck by the difficulty 
Of “I be a person”
As my brother once penned 
In a long lost birthday card
(Not lost, tucked away. safe)
As we filter 
Fake
Make
Ourselves into others 
Masks fit so tightly 
To our faces that we all
Age 67 say “no more fun”
What is it we fear?
Exposure?
Loathing? 
How hard
To be a person
In a world
Filled with people.

#nofilter #nomakeup
I was struck
In a glass cubicle
Beneath a cascading tide
Peeling
Linoleum
Tiles.
I was struck by the difficulty
Of “I be a person”
As my brother once penned
In a long lost birthday card
(Not lost, tucked away. safe)
As we filter
Fake
Make
Ourselves into others
Masks fit so tightly
To our faces that we all
Age 67 say “no more fun”
What is it we fear?
Exposure?
Loathing?
How hard
To be a person
In a world
Filled with people.

#streetart #graffiti #london

#streetart #graffiti #london

They tell me I am not here
Yet in my bones I can feel the wind
cool, coarse, English wind,

So tremulously 
(like a dream, he said)
they splinter
brittle
breaking into diamond shards.

They tell me I am not here
though my skin aches 
with each sharp
jagged diamond edged
word

So unlike that old school rhyme
green-ago days gone
sticks and stones 
don’t do more harm than words.

They tell me I am not here
despite the unfolding
deflowering
pinch of youth going by
into something else

So I wait for adulthood
to perch upon my shoulder

But the bone has broken
and my skin is tattered
leaving nothing but dew drops
and diamonds
of a girl that was not here. 

"My dove, my ease. Age eleven" "banging out loud music, tra la, living a life" #ink #tattoo

"My dove, my ease. Age eleven" "banging out loud music, tra la, living a life" #ink #tattoo

There is nothing quite
like
that crushing weight

a seven in the morning
brush with death

This is just a dream,
a manifestation of my subconscious
self reassurance
whispered
to anyone who will listen.

Alas
this is no dream
no figment of passing
illusion

This is the morning
when the universe spins
so fast
reality becomes jumbled

no codex
no map, nor colour coded legend
like the ones I poured over
a mere seven years old.

Antigua
Tokyo

London.

To be in still sleeping Gotham…
but what nonsense.

The world would be just as jumbled
were I in my mother’s house 
as here, as Antigua. 

each novel word
caught in my throat
mangled vowels
tortured consonants.

I cannot breathe
for expelling
a language
not dead
but never in existence

laced in smoke

this is a seven in the morning cigarette
undoing the fragments
piecing together
the world. 

danielleaaa:

I just can’t get enough of these

I am a poet
or so I tell myself
with
a three ring
spiral
bound
notebook

I write within the lines
— mostly
I adhere to the guidelines of the page
I scribble
and scrawl
and claw
at flashes from my brain
a kaleidoscope scribe
not surreal enough,
grounded to
hurtling
around the sun.
i wait. 

You are a graffiti artist
the world
is a
cluttered
waiting
canvas

"It’s called framing, darling."

a world of shapes through
cobalt blue lenses
everything can be art.

Three stops from home
I offer you lined paper.

You decline
and instead
leave a gift
for the next
weekend weary travellers
in the ‘safety information’ pamphlet

anything can be art

but we see the world in different ways.

I am black ink 
between the lines

you are blue
and everywhere.

image

urhajos:

‘This Should Be The Place' by Silvia Pelissero

urhajos:

This Should Be The Place' by Silvia Pelissero

This is the best spot in the world, you know why? You’re here. …and you smell like a victoria sponge
toby, the sweet talker

I watched a needle
stretch my skin.

I didn’t know
I was so
malleable.

Except that I did.

A thin line
injecting
slow
stinging
anaesthetic

I thought of a thousand and one
funny ways
to tell you.

But none of them came out right.

I was in awe
as I watched the needle
sliding beneath my flesh
and I wondered:
were we built
to be torn apart.

I could feel the cool
slow
stinging
anaesthetic…

jesus fucking christ

"Sorry."

I didn’t know if the nurse was religious.

She wasn’t. Or at least
she found my profanity
american voweled and
sharp
pointed
consonants
funny.

There’s a ghost
tingling
in my arm

A million and one
babies I don’t want
each time we jump into bed.

Thank god for the NHS. 

Last month an editor at Citizen Brooklyn asked me to submit a poem to their amazing website - and here it is! I’m honoured to contribute to such a sick site. Jigsaw Sleeping I & II are featured here, Jigsaw Sleeping I as a video! ”A beautiful model reads a beautiful poem. It doesn’t get much better than this.”

Read the poems here