The Sea of Fecundity is acne from an eternity of puberty. The dark side is always covered by hair. Acne erupts in a forest, unseen. There is no face without hair. There were phases without hair. They still insist on long hair being a phase. Being new was supposed to be the absence of a phase. Being new is being unable to face having no face. Especially without hair. Gibbous curls shift in an eclipse of a hundred years and everyone watches. An oblique profile. Picture it. Eclipses are a return to hiding. To be full of courage for one night a month only. To phase out every other day. To be up every night. To return to light pollution as home. To smile or frown without eyes to see yourself. To see eternity as a phase.
There is a sidewalk,
waiting for shoes while
I try to hear another pair.
Who will sparkle in moondust?
I disperse clouds with inertia
that tends towards anything, but
love is friction.
There is a city composed in
beams of starlight, within them
a window of distraction –
Of future lovers,
Can I improvise my desire,
to share a cloud,
in the entropy of my cells?
Anyone that wants to measure
the transparency of space
by my flickering eyes.
Perfume that cries down your neck for you,
lipstick that will be erased without another’s.
Alcohol like water pools in your washroom,
contact lenses where no one gazes the color.
Dresses are a second skin to hug yourself,
shoes tread on pain to keep you on the ground.
Brush to sweep a face that reminisces bygones,
smartphone to illuminate organ spaces within.
Blues that fade into a solo tapping finger,
nights lost to a loss of words from searching.
Blood has a taste of metal, so perhaps we are
machines that need to love something to keep us
warm and red like evening sunsets that calm us after
a long day. Blue in the tropics mean too much heat like how
when skin turns blue we are cold and dying like the sea engulfing
our emotions and motivation to capture sunsets in the camera reel
fifteen minutes before our brain shuts down due to the lack of blood.
Blue skies can make us kneel when the sun finally has the weather to
punish us for staying indoors too much, to turn metal into furnaces which
boils our blood smelting love into hatred and cooking tears and sweat as twins.
Maybe this is why you now live somewhere colder – Not needing my coals; The summer stink.
Never really liked Apples, since most of what I had
were sour, and the taste of Father forcing me
to slice apples for an entire family. He told everyone to
take a slice before they did. If the family could be brought
together by a blood red fruit, surely the peeler that took a
chunk of my skin can tell the pain it took to my Father. I
gave up and ate a couple like Snow White did with hers,
juice running down my arms that I had to go to the bathroom
thrice each apple and I collapsed on the bed, still convinced
that Father was trying to poison me with his teachings.
January 64th. The stubble on my chin has been growing for T minus one
decade. February still has 45 days in a month where strangers want my hair
shortened to compensate for the long days; Every second given is a hormonal pill
losing effectiveness. Every day a wedding dress tears if I wore it in my head. Every
day marriage to me is eating fast food and passing it out without gaining nutrients. Every
day love becomes a beer that hammers me into blacking out from all that pain. One day
I might wash my skin out once I am done with clearing my makeup. On the 89th
I stare at this laptop screen. By the 93rd day of the week I am bingeing on illusions of
myself dragging my limp figure from the shore, squeezing every acupoint with salvaged warmth.
Scandinavian fixtures and the Space Age interior;
The brushed steel and pale wood will be delivered
tomorrow. Outside, an uncle sweep the ashes from red
altars the point blankness of an aircon light – Their rooms
are dim even in the morning; The primary school child squints
and divines their future. The primary school child might
dream of white teak tables and bleached walls and realize
how empty the visions of people in the past were. Everyone
forgets decor is still delivered by the laborious and not machines,
because machines do not pray for a windfall. Whether tomorrow
comes or not, they will struggle to light joss sticks with the light of smart screens,
decide on whether praying to altars or asking Google is the more efficient approach.