New Look

after the treatment, some of it broke off.

for a while, my anger had been feeding

on my craving for attention.

the only thing left to do was to bleach my hair.

I had handed my body over twice the night before.

the first smelled bad and wanted instructions.

the second said smart things, then wet my bed.

he jumped up at dawn.

I made scrambled eggs for him later that day.

the sun had risen under thickened clouds.

I left with his sheets.

my mattress was still soaked.

I went to the mall and there it was.

dignity converted into peroxide.

in a box that said: New Look.

2020 Border Battles

(inspired by a sonnet form, arranging cut-outs from several reports on the “corona virus” and “migrant crisis” in March 2020)

 

In the battle, Europe has responded, discussing outer border closures,

Struggling with the influx and its screening,

As there’s confusion on the streets, regarding face-masks, meetings, and exposures;

The military build-ups gave new meaning,

 

To some ways which help communities combat, obeying social distances.

The border crisis calls for more fences,

All despite the several agreements that allow free movement without checks,

Water cannons and tear-gas will push back.

 

How dangerous is this virus, what are the symptoms and how are they detected?

As the crisis lasts, which European countries will be those worst affected?

Tell me, how many are, in fact, approved?

 

It might be a defeat for human rights,

But it’s a victory for the leaders that are braced: Together ahead, they move –

While children freeze to death in Syrian nights.

Frankly,

I only texted you

out of the boredom

that came up in a spare minute

between leaving my home

and waiting for the shared malfunctioning

laundry machine to seize

spinning.

The unlovables

I’ve been embracing you despite yourself,

in accurate defiance

of the peach hair on my neck,

against your will and maybe mine,

like unsweetened yoghurt,

yet less conducive to my guts.

I smelt your chest

in perfect congruence

with childish stubbornness

and in alignment with my craving

for the stale taste of

eternally unlovables.

May be a reminder

maybe you never were

more than a reminder

of the  sugar cravings

I’d oppressed ever since

I was thirteen years old

 

maybe I never was

meant to pick her amber

hair off your cardigan

as you put too much fake

honey in my flat white

 

maybe my body was just not

ready to endure more

winter days in May

that seemed so cold to you

and awfully close to me

 

and surely it’s not you

who’s lying here right now

since you’re 8000 miles away

while I am in my childhood bed

again – clutching a hand that is not yours

posthuman

we multiply ontologies

and contemplate democracy

as though we were protagonists

transcending the anthropocene

we bended the whole universe

to hotheads and denialists

radically–rapidly

we strangled what was possible

whatever we could grasp

merged our bodies with

the running room to be

to live in ruptures, live like rats

in blind spots of the junk

expose the monsters we’d become

lurking in the dark

as incarnations of their fantasies

we’ll be crawling out in swarms

from the shades our childhood beds still cast

χαμαιλέων chamailéōn

I am

the earth.

 

I’m the Lion

who arouses.

 

I am a contrast

to the place I claim.

 

I’m what they call converse,

like a chameleon,

 

Dressed in anti-camouflage.

I am in your zone, exposed

 

to all the offerings of yours,

of which you had not known before

 

you saw me in the crowds — sticking out.

tattoos

falling in love is

like the tattoo

you want to inject

under your skin.

a narrative which

I will wind

around your

silky forearm hair,

your dimples

and your heated chest.

intersections with T.

When I put polish on my little toe.

Yours was so small you had to paint its flesh.

When I look at my childhood photographs: Strawberry blond, blue-eyed.

They said we had looked similar.

Whenever I touch a scarf.

Particularly, when I wear it too tight.

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