Posts

IN CELL LIKE YOU

I am not lovable. I never was. I fuck. I clean. I cook. I listen. I hold. I give birth. Hope, when we fuck, is the lie my body tells me before my mind catches up. During their sobbing, I am a therapist. During their hunger, I am a mother. I am everything. I am nothing. They fuck me. They leave me. They want my body, they want my shoulder, they want my dinners, they want my silence. But they never want me. I am not lovable. I never was. And if they keep me, It’s because I became a car left rotting in a garage — a trophy they no longer even want to touch. And if I tear myself open to make them fathers, my broken body is just another chore I’m expected to silently endure. And my children are always less mine than theirs. After all, I’m broken. I am not lovable. I never was. Some women are. Maybe 20%. The rest, like me, are function. Service. Emotional dumping ground. Sexual release. They talk about incels — men who get no love, no sex. Men who cry because they are invisible. And us? Us, w...
Post a Comment
Read more

Your Uber Eats driver died on his way to you.

 What if your Uber at midnight, With stupid drinks and candies, Died on his way to you— Lost not to the night, But to a system that runs on fumes, Burning the dreams of the ones who steer it? The driver, eyes hollow, A clock ticking behind his ribs, Felt the weight of a thousand passengers— Their laughter, their apathy, Their carelessness stuffed in the backseat. A delivery of indulgence, Unthinking, unearned, As he calculated the cost Of his rent, his meals, his breath. Who cares if the drinks make it When his hands shake And the road blurs ahead? And what of the cities, Stacked with lives like matchsticks, All waiting for someone else to spark their joy? Candies on the floor, Glasses cracked in a ditch, While above, the billboards hum With promises no one can afford to believe. So ask yourself: When the ride doesn’t come, When the night stretches wide and silent, Was the cost ever just yours to bear? Or does the world break down together, Engine light flashing, Waiting for someon...
Post a Comment
Read more

Paper Crowns

 Paper Crowns    She wears her cause like woven gold, a banner bright, a story told. Yet ink runs thin where truth should stay— bound to the press that sold her way.    She lifts her chin, a measured grace, as if the name could grant her place. But paper thrones and hollow claims won’t rewrite fire in other names.
Post a Comment
Read more

She wants to be a poet again

 Oh, she remembered— She wants to be a poet again, to pull threads from the fog and weave them into something She could touch, Something that wouldn’t unravel When he spoke. Oh, she remembered— She wants to be a poet again, to let the silence bend and break under the weight of her own voice, to carve lines into the stillness that once held her captive. For years, she lived In a house with no corners, only circles, where her thoughts turned and turned and turned back into silence. His voice was a distant bell, not loud, but constant, a sound that blurred the edges of who she once was. She learned to disappear slowly— In the creak of the floorboards, In the way the air hung still when she walked a room. Even her reflection looked away, unsure of the lines that defined her. But now the pen feels heavy, Its weight is unfamiliar, Like a tool she forgot How to hold. The words spill unevenly, jagged, like light through cracked glass, casting shadows that move When she doesn’t. The poems a...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Alchemist

I measure the chemistry in my medicine like I do in my self-care routine, spoons and scales, droppers and rituals, as if balance can be brewed, as if peace can be poured out in precise doses. The mirror watches, unblinking, Its surface clouded with questions— How much is too much? How little leaves me undone? I trace the edge of a blister pack, counting time in milligrams, fingertips skimming the curve of a half-empty bottle. Everything is measured, The water that burns my skin, The oils that smooth the edges, The pills that straighten the line between here and not quite here. But there’s no formula for this— The alchemy of staying whole, The bitter aftertaste of hope, The weight of a breath taken too deeply. I stir, I swallow, I wait— always waiting for the balance to tip.
Post a Comment
Read more

What time is it in China?

 What time is it in China? In Beijing, the bells of the Drum Tower must have rung by now, 钟鼓楼, their deep voices spreading across the rooftops, carrying the weight of morning into the folds of the city. Do the 胡同 still whisper at dawn? The narrow alleyways, soaked in 茶 and dust, where shadows moved with purpose, And I thought I belonged— 是我的家, I once said, Though the stones beneath my feet could tell I was just passing through. I can still hear the cadence of the streets, the hurried exchange of 毛 for steamed buns, The sharp laughter of strangers under neon skies. Their words drifted past me, a language I could taste but never hold, tones rising and falling like sparrows I never learned to follow. What time is it in China? Perhaps in Xi’an, the gong calls pilgrims to temples, or in the red glow of lanterns near 地坛公园, The trees shiver with secrets they will never share. I wonder if the air feels lighter there, If the stars above Beijing remember me, 回来, they might whisper. But I am ...
Post a Comment
Read more

What if life was a yoga class you never attended,

the mat a limp corpse, sprawled open in the corner, poses etched like hieroglyphs in a language you’re too proud to fucking learn? What if the world twisted itself into violent shapes— spines cracking, limbs dislocating— while you stood at the edge, a monument to inertia, arms crossed, jaw clenched, daring it to break you like glass? The room heaves without you— inhale, exhale, its breath a slow, obscene pulse, but you grip your stillness like a loaded gun, as if movement would drag you screaming into yourself. Would you ever step in, or let the class end, your body unshattered, but your edges jagged, cutting only the shadows you cast?
Post a Comment
Read more

blood pressure

Why would you measure your blood pressure? When your pulse is already a carnival, a neon beast swallowing itself whole, rides crashing, crowds screaming, And the sky bleeding glitter onto everything it touches? Is it the meth— a gremlin gnawing wires behind your ribs, Chewing through the last thread of calm? Is it the cocaine? The powdered preacher, The powdered preacher, hissing sermons that crack your teeth And teach your jaw to forget itself? The cuff wraps like a snake made of fog, tightens, tightens, until your arm becomes a question— a limb you no longer trust. 160 over chaos, 90 over regret, 160 over chaos, 90 over regret. But why stop now? Let it rise, let it rise like a cathedral of shattered glass, Let the pressure sing in the language of burning wires. Who needs a number When the world bends to your pulse, When the veins on your wrist Are rivers rewriting their own maps? Measure it again, measure it again— When your chest turns into a door that won’t stop knocking, When your...
Post a Comment
Read more

I made love to an Indian poet in Istanbul

 I made love to an Indian poet in Istanbul, His words were like shadows, soft and full. The Bosphorus split, its waters aglow, Bleeding ferries and ghosts where no winds blow. His face broke in the neon’s cruel decay, like The Weeknd on a Monday, lost halfway. His prayers hung heavy, too sharp to speak, my hands burned through the silence he’d keep. I drank rakia once, or maybe it was a lie, its burn slid down like a fractured goodbye. The glass hummed low, a whisper, a sigh, its weight like a promise you never let fly. You stood there silent, your hands at your side, your words locked away, where regret likes to hide. I waited for something, a vow, a thread, but you gave me nothing—just silence instead. The fire of the drink spoke louder than you. Its warmth was a betrayal, and it burned something true. I drank rakia once, or maybe just pain, and it tasted like you, like love left in vain.
Post a Comment
Read more

Young Again

No, I’m not here to bother you, But I won’t fold for anything less— Not less than your youth, electric and bold, Not less than the language your body speaks, Each motion loud, serene, and whole. You cast coolness like shadows on warm stone, Strength radiates in waves, undeniable. I don’t care if it’s an illusion, If the foundation is real or imagined— I’ll take the mirage if it holds fire. I won’t settle for less than a man who burns, Hot with talent and the pull of mystery, A lover of untamed moments, Who grips tight when the world feels slippery. No less than someone whose story Is inked in bravery and lived scars, Whose soul hums with red vulnerability, Childish hesitation threading through A spoiled, perfect chaos. I don’t care if the world frowns at us; I’ll pour the wine, baby, Let it spill if it must. I never served a man, But I could serve you— Because for you, I’ll burn But I’m not here to bother you, Stay where you will— In your orbit, untouchable, A restless storm with no an...
Post a Comment
Read more

No anchor

 I’ll dance as the ground breaks beneath me, As the air hums with my defiance, Arms reaching for a rhythm You may never hear. This is not a plea; It’s an eruption. I won’t wait for your steps to lead— My movement is mine, A declaration, An orbit that needs no anchor.
Post a Comment
Read more

the smell of Muay Thai linen

 She came with the sound of the wind, a low howl slipping through the cracks, and the smell of Muay Thai linen, sweat-soaked and sacred, wrapped in the heat of battles fought and won. The floorboards groaned beneath her weight, but her steps left no mark, her presence is more storm than shadow. “You are tethered,” she said, her voice cutting through the room like a blade wrapped in silk. “Tied to walls that were never yours, to paths that have long since crumbled. Why do you cling to what cannot hold you?” The lamp flickered, it’s flame bowing to her, it’s light casting her face in pieces— half god, half smoke, half a memory of what I’d forgotten to fear. She reached for me, her hands scented with resin and heat, fingers brushing against the edges of my stillness. “You must move,” she whispered, her breath sharp, like fists striking the air, like kicks that split silence into halves. “The wind carries your name forward, but you hold it back. Let go. Let go.” Her scent lingered— the...
Post a Comment
Read more

He’s the one

 Oh sure, he’s the one— the one you dream of for hours, for years, for lifetimes. Bad enough, good enough.  Sexy, kind. Only yours.  The fire in your veins, the shadow in the doorway, that just-out-of-reach smirk Your private exotic ghost.  You chase him through city streets, find his echoes in passing faces, swear you see him— but he always slips away. Oh sure, he’s the one— the one you dream of, the one who lingers, your private exotic ghost. He walks through your thoughts, golden, untouchable, the fire in your breath, the storm in your pulse. You catch glimpses of him— in strangers, in shadows, he’s sitting next to you on the train, he’s a co-worker, a neighbor, a foreign politician, a Hollywood actor, the vocalist of your favorite band, manly, feminist, impossible. He is everywhere— but just out of reach. And then, one quiet night, bathed in silver light, you turn to the mirror, and there he is— Waiting. Smiling. He was always you.
Post a Comment
Read more

“No, It Wasn’t About Him” (a surreal elegy for an ache that had no name)

 “No, It Wasn’t About Him” (a surreal elegy for an ache that had no name) There was a question folded inside the way he looked at me— “you’re married, right?” as if the ring I wore on my nerves was a doorbell he wouldn’t dare press. But by then the marriage had already become a house where the walls leaned in to whisper, a silence with architecture, a man who mistook my hunger for a light switch and flicked me off each night before bed.   No, it wasn’t about him. Not the boy with smoke in his eyes and thunder still learning its name. He was just the mirror I passed by on my way to undress my loneliness.   Because the ache didn’t begin with a gaze. It began when I was still inside love and still unseen. It began with dinners served like punctuation, with a child’s laughter leaking through the seams, with me, folding my fire into origami and offering it to a man who only collected ice sculptures. So when the crush came, he was not the fire— he was just the spark that showed...
Post a Comment
Read more

to give birth like a warrior on enemy ground

 She got pregnant in a world on the verge of collapse. 2020 was sharpening its knives, and she was creating life. But even contractions couldn’t stop her fire. There she was—belly clenched in pain, fighting hospital bureaucracy with a phone in one hand and rage in the other. “My husband will be here. Show me the law. Show me the fucking law.” He didn’t make it in time. The world closed its doors. And she gave birth like a warrior on enemy ground.
Post a Comment
Read more

To slice an ox like a symphony

The world rests on my hands: space-time that slowly comes closer to the body-path. Once the city awoke with clamorous anthems, Today, it wakes up with breakfast delivered to the door by yellow uniforms - used to be green! I pick craters scattered along this road that will Give in the light that Rimbaud unleashed from the eyes Hoping to find Zhuangzi. I, too, want to slice an ox like a symphony! Each person is exactly what they should be: The throat pointed at the yelling, questions as big as maps brass breath  It is the driving force behind everything that exists.
Post a Comment
Read more

multicultural abysses

Beijing wakes me violently against the night, reminds me of the whimsical hands of the poem. Clandestine bars lost in hutongs blister through the germination of the senses as multicultural abysses perched on fragile smiles, granite beers in the rubble of words. Bohemian children seek beauty in the burned skin of a distant continent. Maybe it's Sunday or perhaps it's afternoon, maybe this is the year in which we quench the wild insomnia that lives in the viscera. It is visceral, this purple will to alienate the senses, bust the poem, break the maps, burn the frontiers, live forever far from the clandestine pressure of existence.
Post a Comment
Read more

In the world

Are those streets or your bones? Some stars are poisoning the vision, We can inspire the wild fog expire poetry, dive into a tree, reborn in the buildings, save our souls between two forks of conversation. Are those the cars, or is it one of your songs the lust stretched to the lungs, and my voice in a hurry, trying to sound smart at anything. the grammar is so tragic in my hands, I will reformulate, Is it the context or is it the character? drunkenness in devotion of anything: it can be you Or it can be me if you want, if you ever want It's a nasty winter between two unlikely thoughts it's my echo in fragrant memories your voice extended along a few Beijing kilometers and the night is suspended forever in two or three looks.
Post a Comment
Read more

Lessons about Jealousy

Speak loudly about survival strategies, So the child can hear it too. How genetic silver fingers can help you in times of confined days among other people’s ambitions. We’re just as strong as the repetition of the days we accept. You were playing with your friends And little Xu blocked your passage - He thought he was a curtain. Well, if he were a curtain, Would you still get mad? Come to the kitchen table Before we get to know each other and don’t get jealous, We’re much less foreign than The man with the package at the door
Post a Comment
Read more

how much of the memory is visible

In the muscles of the burning speech You know the streets and their nomadic violence There’s no point in waiting for the ghost Inside the hutong He’s there, but he’s too busy dancing Inside our awakened sleep Beers at your fingertips Beers at your fingertips a purple moon in the insomnia of objects The paper foam in this toy town Love Letters Naked Forever In verses about war  As dementia progresses throughout the night We know somebody’s waiting for us In a much safer land.
Post a Comment
Read more

High heels with fur

I call for a sleepwalking name, I desire you hypocritically because my forgetfulness is tireless. I lighten your body with prayers and the world explodes in your mouth. I dropped the sheets where we used to postpone promises. Today, i celebrate loneliness inside a dictator’s womb. the war escapes me. Let me fail while you’re still warm. Finish this song inside my cigarette, where the meat is back to being raw.
Post a Comment
Read more

Have you combed your hair

While you waited for this page to bring you A shipwreck An evening displaced in ambition A time that is a pillow that is a snow mountain In the kitchen Are you lost, my fellow poet? Church bulletins on Sunday Behind politics Where is that place where you hide With all the words you dreamed? Poems that come in dreams Dreams that are green and global Your mother’s voice in the sea of the crossroads. The moment of alignment thinking inside your thoughts Will they also regret being born? I’m having long conversations with the author of “Psychological Paradigms of Displaced Persons”
Post a Comment
Read more

The Year of the Pig

Can you just tell me which crimes are deep enough for us to build a shrine around it in our memories can we still dance inside a carbonized lung and a drunken scar. We’re poisoning the roads and there’s red lipstick around my lack of perception. What is this year’s animal we could just eat a barbecue instead make the pig go away with poetry why is it dragging itself to my menstruated voice is this just the air or am I breathing smoked flesh? Somebody told me I should enjoy the bacon between stanzas. Somehow, the pig is growing replacing the inner child now I have the inner pig the ayi paiting my nails is asking “what is the year in your country” “你们怎么算” I guess time can be part of sovereign power supreme authority coming from the moon’s rotation just like my menstrual cycle always messing up with the ocean of nights that burst into mutual understanding we all speak the same language anyway but I guess the silences also require translation I ask you  *quais são os crimes que nos per...
Post a Comment
Read more

He smokes a blonde smoke

 under unfamiliar light. He married the streets where a snow leopard wrote his biography is husky Mandarin. I’m holding his poem with my mouth. It has the shape of the bell tower. I heard that the night is afraid of him and I have no reason to doubt that he has no borders because his Slavic heritage has  no respect for my feelings. He is the negation of me and I want his thoughts in my castle. It’s not such a bad idea to draw my name between your legs. Give me that menu I want to choose my president, my passion and your hope, the kind of violence that you transform into art. Let me swallow those nasty Beijing depressions with your semen. 
Post a Comment
Read more

Call center

my diploma makes a red shadow over the depth of my craft it’s a kind of intelligence developed over the furniture. the furniture is only furniture but the diploma is a beam of light, although furniture has a more pronounced practical component because the diploma is more like a very soft lamp. anyway, it does not make much difference unless you are interested in the promotional package of free texting for all the mobile networks and also want to know my standpoint on God's perceptions by Kierkegaard.
Post a Comment
Read more

A bag on your head kind of love poem

I’ve been trying to write a poem about you  But it’s hard with all these neon lights pinching my lungs  and the cars accumulating on my eyelids  Although you don’t get hurt if you walk slowly  through all the borderline smell of painted plants I’ve been trying to understand what is happening  on the streets when you walk them  I think they become someone’s insomnia  I want you to hurt me for real,  like those sociopathic lovers in college  Who made me write and write and write  until the page bleeds, That is my mental strategy: Stay safe,  I’ve been trying to be safe  by fighting every night  I imagine us stuck forever in a Chinese strip club  where women throw themselves at you  While I watch.  I love your fast metabolism, boy, We all do.  This is a love poem in which I put a bag on your head until you choke Maybe I can throw in some Chinese men as well ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Scooters

I can very well get on this scooter to get away from you like someone who escapes from boredom and ends up in China but nights exist even in Mandarin. you never thought about making a name for yourself around the world but the world makes a name for itself inside of you and it’s not always round. we used to eat fire in the field spoil apples against the walls that kept us away from each other we had orchards growing in our throats and we wanted to lick the stars they looked as sweet as golden blackberries. when grandma died, I was quick to understand that childhood would be the only place of peace. now I talk with imaginary scooters I'm miles away from my grandfather's field I'm a digital fruit who tastes like blood. I'm going to buy a scooter, rush to my grandfather’s field and live there forever.
Post a Comment
Read more

It looks bad

It looks bad that the days ahead, the empty ice that stumbles in our face When we walk the streets, waiting for the hungry dogs that we abandoned in the suburbs of thoughts, They come to chew the orbits of our eyes so we don’t see The time that has passed since we woke up. And since the night began, she also began to walk into the womb of our ruined and less noisy houses. It looks bad because it always does, because people don’t just do this They don’t simply sleep on the parapet of life With the various fractures exposed to boredom and a sharp tenderness of the bodies of others to burn slowly as a bath of sweat, imagination. “Please don’t just sit waiting for the iron sun to plunge their senses.” a sun that would heat so hard that it would blast the nerves of the pictures you take to all those magazines that just look bad and newspapers that also look so bad because it seems bad to dilute affections with a mud of numbers a mass of statistics, a m...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Long Sleeper

one day, we will take revenge on the ones who hurt us even if that means an inflection of freedom we'll breathe a slow, limpid scent that expands through bowls of obsession. this is the only time of the year that we know, the sights are flooded with spasms and withdrawal. we know that we have to leave November one day even if that means that we need to create something bigger than us even if we need to stop sleeping and forget the fresh meat only open our legs for the vertebra of the night. the long sleep will arrive lightly, resting on the wounds, sucking the essence and to be or not to be becomes always a matter of perspective.
Post a Comment
Read more

Academism

I wanted to show you all the thesis I wrote about fear, with cold names and wild silences. It's time for a change and we have to leave. I keep the pages sweating just to warm you up. from here, I see your name of earth germinating into the dream’s womb hence the song arrives salty and eternity is exercised in an auditorium. if it is worth abandoning what we have created in fixed logic, in imperfect heat? perhaps. we crawl into the illusion of other bodies, sinking through the center of other people's conversations where we think we show ourselves but we only run away from us. What is it like not to be here, if when I'm not here I do not know myself? abandon the platinum rhetoric for a greater illusion. leave me with my thesis, after all, my extroversion can exist independently.
Post a Comment
Read more