flattering effects

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the reciprocity

I am a Schrödinger’s conundrum

I want you and do not, both at the same time 

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for any of my moves 

when I’m telling you that it takes two to Tango

I might know the steps, yet you sure took the lead 

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the fire that I start

I was just about to light another cigarette

to blow some smoke into your face

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the grasp 

by the low-fenced window side

it was wide open and I was close to fall

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for the song we sing 

as close as we were that night, you’re not the one 

running in my head, nor breaking my chest 

.

don’t you dare flatter yourself for my boldness and my courage 

they’re my possessive claims’ only disguise 

washing off beneath your tongue 

.

and don’t you dare try me again –

instead, pretend as if this never was

and we, in fact, did not exist.

D. issues

I crave for your approval

like I did for my Dad’s

back in school:

for my marks, my jokes and

silly dreams.

.

I want all your approval

the way I get it from my Dad

nowadays:

for my job, my jokes and

unlived dreams.

.

needing your approval

is like going back in time,

to the girl

who’s thinking of her dreams

as something to be judged – and finally dismissed.

where they tore down the house

at the Southern corner of the station

(where red steel blends into the tracks,

below the blurred graffiti creations):

try to not get stuck in the cracks,

Keep right until on fresh tar,

turn left, avoid the crosswalk,

ride on and mind the parked cars,

stop beside the grey block.

here, before and after town,

they’ve recently torn down

the house where we first kissed.

in a room with no doors,

nothing but us on wooden floors,

It must have caused a lot of dust.

as king

as king, do you ever knock?

as king, do you enter her tower

before she has even let her hair down?

or let it grow long enough at all?

as king, is all that ripens, blooms and flourishes,

just for you to pick?

hanging from the tree

rooted in the paradise you claim to own?

as king, do you treat her like

the medium rare deer on your plate?

like something to be covered in sauce,

to be devoured, like prey?

as king, do you ever mistake

greed for lust?

boorishness for decency?

and bluntness for sincerity?

as king, does your keen eye drift

in boredom as I write,

onto another soft-curved creature,

hedged in the wilderness you roam?

as king, do you ever call out for the queen?

just to hear her voice, hear what she has to say?

and when she answers back,

will you listen, too?

as king, can you sit tight, tighter?

as king can you pull yourself together?

as king, can you surrender to

asking?

ventilator effects

there is pressure on my diaphragm

like right before a free fall,

before I cry, throw up,

or laugh hysterically.

my head hums to flickering eye lids

as there’s a sparkly liquid

running down my spine and stomach wall.

it is coming from my head, I think.

 

these sure are just the side effects

of your new ventilator.

It must have been,

the rhythmed blasts of air

towards our locked hands,

heavy breathing,

and our beating hearts,

that cause me so much pain today.

formication

a chain of people holding hands in Lebanon

–dozens of kilometers, I heard–

the book vendor’s voice as she elaborates on some Norwegian novel

–I never read it in the end–

his pink shirt smelling of a wooden wardrobe and Chanel

–it used to intensify toward his wrist–

people singing well on casting shows

–although I really do not care–

Snow Patrol on gravel-grounded morning walks

–sound and pulse and volume–

breathing in snow-pregnant winter air

–I could taste it when I was a kid–

the morning we began this list, high on caffeine and in love

–unlike you, the formication did return–

Shakespeare’s vanishing anagram

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

All damp, I tease you. Shame’s tremor

hums ahead. I act a role, so play me

as you create hell’s metaphor.

I am a sad muse, teach me hope.

Come, I’m all yours, Master

My spasms harm as I rot.

Still, you are there

to hear my praise.

I compare thee

to a red rose,

I presume.

Please,

dare

me.

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.

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.

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