nascent beginnings
adjacent living
complacent sitting there,
imagining if you are eating dinner
and why i can’t be the spoon
or the napkin
watching over you-

why am i not
placed across you
surveying your face
every time you look down
for another bite of food-

i cannot think like this
creepily drown myself
in obsessive thoughts like these.

ridiculous in their size and creed,
fantasising how
you feed yourself-

i have barely seen you exist.

but then i still concern for your
and whether you’ve had enough greens
the way you take your coffee or tea
maybe two sugars or black,
or milky…

romantic child,

you are useless.


cinnamon swirl

I love to swipe the crispy flakes of leftover pastry
in the steel trays of Sainsbury’s bakery section.

It’s not a sin,
or is it?

Isn’t it?
It’s harmless!

They would have thrown them away
anyways, into the putrid food waste bag,
alongside a load of unopened packets
which lie discarded, rejected, reduced,
and perfectly edible,
but awfully illegal to give
to the starving mouths in this city
and on these streets
for some reason.

Some friends of mine fish out these remains
to save some expense from their always shrinking pockets
and their always worrying conscience.

Last they told me,
in utter lament-

“They locked the bins.”

Access to their trash.
Our treasure.

can you see me now?

I hold a picture from a distance of one metre
Of a smiling man
I ask you what you think of it-
You say
“It’s cute”
I hold the same picture from the distance of 50 centimetres
I ask you again
You say
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

You look at me perplexed as I slowly glide towards you
violating your private bubble as
I hold it again from the distance of 30

You notice in the background
a swastika is branded
on the sleeve of the man
He is tattooed and bald and very pale
He is at a neo-naxi rally
And you can see
If you squint real carefully
You can make out a
“Make America Great Again” sticker.

I’m asking you to look a little closer
at every little thing
because you’ll never know what
you’re not seeing
unless you leave your comfort zone.

vermouth tree

let’s run to the vermouth tree
let’s run up the bark
chipping off skin
showing smooth pane

you and me
you and me
you and me
you and me

we’ll be kings in our altitude

we’ll drink the sap
to makes us drowsy
we’ll take a nap
on the branches grand
like muscular thighs of amicable giants
planted right here in the sand

let’s run up the vermouth tree
and laze around like vagabonds
whose only inspiration is
to live
to long
and to live long

just like this horizontal wooden palace
which shall persist when we are gone
which shall resist broken innocence
for her branches always reach towards the sky
never regretting
or failing to try

its sweet earthiness
shall remind us
of the goodness of nature
as we drift to dreams

its sweet richness
reminds us of things
and magical

you and me
you and me
we’ll be befuddled atop her palms
held in her grace as we hang
as voluntary adornments
clinging on for love

returning home when the night’s to come.

until the setting sun greets us here
atop the cusp
flowerful smoke
defusing what’s become of us
while the clouds turn sad
at dusk
a must,
the rust
is true
and magnificent
and you and I
stay drunk.


Baby feet
like sugarplum gumdrops
Covered in sweetness
Only the tongue can describe

Enveloped in intrinsic tenderness
It can’t help but commit-
Akin to the kind of touch a mother holds
Her precious children with

Plush plush plush
Fluffy poodles and the smile of the old lady who sells
Candied strawberries on the street
Drizzled around the eyes of a kind maiden
Laden with tumultuous softness
That always welcomes embrace

With honey trapped in dimples
Skin smooth and supple
I sneak a nibble,
Sly and delicious
Simply nutritious
To my soul,
As it seeks this aura everywhere.

This does not mean
This can withstand
A million and one falls.

The echoing ripples of circles
In the pond of teardrops
Reserved for the world
And everyone in it
Seems to scan for you in a hopeful distance
Permeating constantly…

I’m merely a timid girl
Who fears rigidity and barriers
Desperate for a haven
Of feathers
Of warm rotund flesh
To retreat my head in

No matter how hard
I rub it the wrong way
It will never catch flame

And anger skips straight to a pensive forgiveness
That will continue to love and be my friend

For we do not keep scores
And we treasure scars
Silly enough to pick at scabs playfully
Taking the new ruggedness
Regarding it still:
With the mark of experience.

Poema Favorito del dia: (Pequeño poema infinito) by Federíco Garcia Lorca

Little Infinite Poem (esp. version below)

To take the wrong road
is to arrive at the snow
and arriving at the snow
is to graze for several centuries on the grass of cemeteries.

To take the wrong road
is to arrive at the woman,
the woman who doesn’t fear the light,
the woman who kills two roosters in a second,
the light that doesn’t fear the roosters
and roosters that don’t know how to sing across the snow.

But if the snow chooses the wrong heart,
the South Wind may arrive
and as the air pays no heed to groans
we’ll have to graze again on the grass of cemeteries.

I saw two saddened, waxen ears of wheat
that buried a landscape of volcanoes
and I saw two mad boys
weeping as they pressed the pupils in a murderer’s eyes.

But two has never been a number
because it is anguish and its shadow
it’s the guitar where love is driven to despair
it’s the proof of an infinity not its own
and it’s the walls of the dead
and the punishment of the new, unending resurrection.

The dead hate the number two,
but the number two lulls women to sleep,
and as woman fears the light,
light trembles before the roosters
and as roosters know only how to fly across the snow,
we’ll have to graze on the grass of cemeteries forever.

[trans. Paul Archer]


Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la nieve
y llegar a la nieve
es pacer durante veinte siglos las hierbas de los cementerios.

Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la mujer,
la mujer que no teme la luz,
la mujer que no teme a los gallos
y los gallos que no saben cantar sobre la nieve.

Pero si la nieve se equivoca de corazón
puede llegar el viento Austro
y como el aire no hace caso de los gemidos
tendremos que pacer otra vez las hierbas de los cementerios.

Yo vi dos dolorosas espigas de cera
que enterraban un paisaje de volcanes
y vi dos niños locos que empujaban llorando las pupilas de un asesino.

Pero el dos no ha sido nunca un número
porque es una angustia y su sombra,
porque es la guitarra donde el amor se desespera,
porque es la demostración de otro infinito que no es suyo
y es las murallas del muerto
y el castigo de la nueva resurrección sin finales.

Los muertos odian el número dos,
pero el número dos adormece a las mujeres
y como la mujer teme la luz
la luz tiembla delante de los gallos
y los gallos sólo saben votar sobre la nieve
tendremos que pacer sin descanso las hierbas de los cementerios.