MAYBE THIS WILL BE BETTER THAN THE LAST

Poem by Paris LeClaire I said, in vain, of course, butAlready I had mispelled the titleAnd the word “misspelled” and allI can think to write is the quietWord “ephemeral.” There is no greater loss than thatOf the language through which weBreathe, except, perhaps, for the dirt stainCreeping up on the clean white of mySandals. Perhaps.Continue reading “MAYBE THIS WILL BE BETTER THAN THE LAST”

self-portrait as a book

reposing on an undusted wood boardthat distinct smell aroundgrowing on me,my surface—slantedon the previous one’shandsome (barring magnetic),spare font intro,sedate and composed countenanceand a few violets for welcomeinto my world.if only you pick me, flip over my layersyou’ll know I have a storya web of technicolour memoriesa map of a fascinating journeyentwined with those of others,aContinue reading “self-portrait as a book”

War on Medicine

I had to abolish you,How long would you grapple?Delighted to breakthrough,Enslaved, daily apple. Disgraceful fragility.Never imagined treacheryOf bitter inefficiency,And a myriad sisters left to memory. Serenity, dishonest,Instituted disciples of anger.Never again, you promised.Silence, refreshing candor. Vestiges of the past,Afflict my insides, mutinous.Hysterical sin, vastRecital of an ode to my uterus.

the creatures in the primrose fields

Shall we as ghostly fireflies,witness moonlit atrocities together,perched on windless gravestones to take this chance, as transient beingsserendipitously trappedin the wintry wineglasses of alleyway devotees; They witnessed once, how their gem-encrustedshipyards brushed the sky, brought down a rainof carnivorous silvers- & decked a church with neon roses,spat mica onto the heathens’ hands Come back toContinue reading “the creatures in the primrose fields”