Love Story

like a wave of electricity through your innards
like a pigeon and another pigeon in the bed of the sky
like stolen kisses worth one kind word each
like a second that just wasted away

like the great scars you show off
tattoos that prove you lived
like the boy in second grade
you always blushed when you thought about

like bread bought long ago
gone stale with age and time
like memorials built with love and music
broken pieces of rubble and concrete

like reams of paper I threw away
with cupcake wrappers and vegetable peels
like the sun that set yesterday and
decided to retire

Satan’s Nightmares

the grass is a little greener and diamonds
are made not of coal but a fabric the earth
mother sews up as the stars burn into a little
pinch of ash that rains upon the thirsty One
* * *
hell is a temple to happiness
* * *
all existence is delirium
the cows are mad and the horses are mad
the mad books written by the maddest of
souls speak of a corner tucked in the brain
that is utterly, totally, magnificently mad
the songs are mad the government is mad
the mad farmer sows his mad seed before
he joins the circle of mad people in the madhouse
as they ponder over the difference between a raven
and a writing desk forevermore and the mad monk
sways under the storm screaming asteroids into himself
his body is made of the moon
* * *
the sky is whispering to a rapturous bird
there is a secret hidden among the leaves of all stories
it bursts into rain with the need to be told
the secret is in the flight of the butterfly
in bubbles blown out of soap
in the immortal sun that all stories revolve around
and the secret is to listen, to listen
to listen


by day the vampire is a normal person
by night the vampire is a normal person
all normality is vampirism
all existence is vampirism
consuming life to live life
like the serpent we breathe fog and death
on our own tale

how sharp are your teeth, grandma!
how red your eyes!
the bells are ringing, Sinatra is singing
your voice is eating me, man
that saxophone is killing me, man
the song just reared its ugly head
the guitar just devoured itself
the strings are now a hangman’s noose
the song bleeds gold dust into
the gaping maw

the song is over
suppose it thought it had more to say
but this vampire is probably health conscious
and needs to go the gym
or maybe it’s the vampire’s bathtub
and it wanted to go gardening or something


i tire of your face
it is not me
it is an endless abyss
a vortex of assumptions
suddenly the weight of my beard
bears heavy on me – the hair is tentacles
coiling around me
every dust particle on my face is a disco light
man, I really need to take a shower

why am i dressed in the clothes of a prisoner?
why do i need another me into a world that
can barely handle me in the first place?

i tire of your face
it is not me
yet why do its grappling fingers
on my throat stink of the same flesh?
the reaper is behind me
i can see the shadow of the baton
of the social police

wait, that was just the selfie stick.


here the sky is fog
and the assorted smokes and fumes of everyday traffic
are a patchwork quilt hiding within its folds
stories whispered from mouths I know not
all the mouths of new delhi, all shapes and sizes
stories kissed by lips of all shades and hues
stories whispered from mouths I know not
into ears I have not

but even now you burn
the string from the sky I can just pull and pull
to unravel the sky and bathe in the flood of poems
under your ever-gaze
sink and swim a thousand cities
millenniums crumple into a flame
that is now licking at my eyes

for the eye of the hunter
for the brightest star in the sky
the smoke of a little world, a little people
and the young story of existence is a pittance
somewhere you burn as the jewel of all jewels
a splendour that burns blindness into eyes that
do not know they can see
but here you alone stand victorious over a song
that never did give thee voice

one night you saw four souls breathing life into your magnificent gaze


Emily Wilson

Originally posted on The Bohemyth:

Postcard I almost send to an almost lover

Krakow, Poland

I try to write about Schindler’s

factory, the portraits of people

saved, the wall of faces gray

and grave, but I don’t.

I know I have nothing

to say that their gaze

does not already convey.

I try to write about Poland’s

dragon, the subtle slut

shame of talon and flame.

Try to be glib, to write

He only eats beautiful

virgins, so don’t worry

about me! Instead, I

think of how, in Czech,

“to paint” and “to love”

are only one vowel

away: malovat; milovat.

The salutation alone

is written. I paint

you, I paint you, I paint you.

Emily Wilson is currently pursuing an MFA in poetry at the University of North Carolina Wilmington as a graduate teaching assistant. Her poetry, translations, and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Asymptote, Bustle, Green Mountains Review, [pank], Passages…

View original 49 more words

insert guitar solo here

Like a dog that knows no bone will come out
of barking anymore
Pavlov is done, my canine brain decides
but still with the barking
An entirely misplaced notion of the past
somehow, somewhere, anywhere,
sometime, anytime; that it will happen again

The sun shall rise in the east again
and Pink Floyd’s new album will be just as great
as a dark side of the moon; the moon which has
only dark sides – dark recesses in a vacuum
that hold only a promise that once realised
has to come back : how can it not
meddle wall animals final cut some gilmour stuff
and a few film scores have passed, a few dead people have passed
and each have been promises

While ignorant armies clash at night
i sleep, which is like dying except you wake up
i sleep and when the strings are pulled up
and when the director says let there be light
and there is light, bloody hell – there is light!
the rooster crows or was it the bulging cock straining
to be heard? the chime hits its crescendo
and the alarm bells and the garbage man
assault the last vestiges of the unrealised dream
it must be these things, or i never wake up
and sleeping is actually closer to living than it is to dying
that the eyes while still shut still send hope to the brain
the blind brain that is so blind it says it is not blind
that it can see – nay, feel the little tension in the air
the strings from heaven seem a little too tight
the guitar is going to come in – it always does at just about…
and the world is braille and the walls sing the same song
as the broken heap of glass hope on the side of the room hummed
last night – it is what it is
the missive ricocheting off the blind room
the blind room that sees only more emptiness through
the window and the empty room filled with
the emptiness of it all
why, there was no guitar this time

but emptiness is not a solid snake or a liquid snake
coiling in the mind but smoke that the beaker cannot quite
hold but definitely cannot let go because if it is not empty
there is something and if this something is not emptiness
it must be something else and i
don’t know what it is and i
don’t care what is and i
wish it and emptiness and all volume measuring devices
burst into smoke and like the smoke in the sky
i shall meditate upon it

the smoke fills up the room and fills up the lungs
and the beaker becomes smoke
and the window becomes smoke
and the room becomes smoke
and the air becomes smoke
hi, my name is smoke, how ya doin’?
and the beaker strains under the pure weight of the
smoke and
the string that only I saw I only saw in my head
and then it collapsed

spike is scooby doo is pluto is snowy is timothy is marley is hooch is buck is shiro is seamus is arcanine is kruger is layla is shah rukh khan is doga is snuffles et tu caesar?
bark with me, for i am you!

today is the same as yesterday is the same as tomorrow and so on and on it goes
until the history of it all eats the future from the cup and well the history shits the future at one point of time in the future and the future stinks and here is the funny bit bartender the future stinks and it stinks because it was actually yesterday
cash registers calling in the money time after time just breathe man you’ll get brain damage if you’re always on the run like this and speak to me darling what balloon do you want pick any you want any colour you like and now you just breathe again son and watch the eclipse watch as the moon adorns the sun watch that great gig in the sky and the unsung music in the air speaking of things unsaid calling surfacing louder than words but this is not the place for the guitar

faith and doubt christ and darwin peter and luther all passing the drink in whatever circle of hell dante could conjure up on seeing the beautiful beautiful face of beatrice oh beatrice she talks and she talks and i’ll silence you with a kiss me out of desire babe and no consolation only congratulations and celebrations chocolates that melted like time you’re already done with floyd which one’s pink haha
crying little gemstones into your hand and you told your brother and he told his mother and she told everyone and later your father and your mother and your brother and everyone will beat you to make thousands of little gemstones in your hand and take it away from you precious tears a precious life crying out an entire life into gemstones in the jewellery store and you knew then didn’t you that the human life is priceless getting born a little bit of alcohol a little bit of sex a little bit of money a little bit of room but getting to live priceless priceless dear chap priceless please use this credit card if you thought priceless cannot be counted you’re in for a little surprise
and it is what it is and
it is what it is