Esto es simplemente una canción, por
no los labios o la lengua,
pero es un mil cascabeleos
bailando dentro de mis huesos.
El creación de sangre,
célula por célula,
un carillón dedicado, consagrado,
solamente para ti.
Burbujas minúsculas interrumpen
cada pensamiento,
un borbotón
que murmura
como perlas.
- l.a.m.
“I’m stewing your tea. Can’t you see
my heart’s steeped in it, honey?As I wind honey round a spoon
to sweeten it, doesn’t it proveI even hold your sweet tooth dear
among all your teeth? Is it clear?I stir in milk and the world turns
in your teacup. My stomach churns.You warm your hands on the cup: see
how it breathes, how you throttle me?Though the obsolete clock still ticks
I measure my time, sip by sip.Is it hot, strong and sweet enough?
Say it’s all three. Say it’ll do.Say you like something in it
but you’re not sure what: I’ll know.Say when you’re finished we’re not
”
and don’t go.
I picture us
looking deeply
into each other’s eyes
through a thick wall
of cement, drywall,
old wallpaper,
paint, paint, paint,
oak paneling.
Neither of us knows
the other is looking,
but faintly,
we can sense
that it’s no stranger
in the next room.
- l.a.m.
what if no man
will come to know
each contour of
my heart, my flesh…
will parts of my body
dissolve into nothing
if they have gone
too long unkissed?
will i become formless;
my skin an amorphous
puddle of cream?
here i am.
supple.
so ripe, i’m nearly bruised.
heavy.
an oversweet fruit
falling to the bees.
- l.a.m.
(Source: tammyvo)
the electrons,
one
by
one
r p l d
i p e
through the universe,
along that cord from
you-to-me.
little sparks. a cc umu lated.
AMPLIFED. saturated. linkingtogether.
neurotransmitters pinging,
like a low-pitched alarm my ears pretended
not to hear.
[i should have known.
even as the thunder rocked me straight through and the rain gushed
down
like
an
urgent
whisper,
i denied the storm.]
i awoke from the fever dream
to find the cells mutating;
all pieces at war within me.
charred timber. salted earth.
- l.a.m.
The strong fibrous cords of
my love, my dedication were
woven
like a flesh, like a meat.
Now dehydrated
dried up
inflexible
sharp.
I gnaw and gnash;
the strands decompose
into a flavorless pulp.
Sinew and gristle persevere,
connective tissues with
naught but phantoms
to yoke.
I must swallow down these lumps,
let my insides work in their own way:
Bitter enzymes persist, dissolve,
until finally
the past
is passed.
- l.a.m.
(Source: raccoonology)
“I believed that I wanted to be a poet, but deep down I just wanted to be a poem.”
(Source: light-essence)
