The Grass is Black/The Air is Pink

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feel me/read me/follow me

untitled by Andre Breton

(First know poem/hymn by French poet Andre Breton)

A dream is a gaze cast unendingly far…
Sometimes that’s blue, like a fragment of myth…
A glittering jewel, but tarnished by day…
Perhaps the sole fruit that our
daylight permits….

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Seasons

Wet-Intellect-Nasty-Tired-Evil-Roach
Sad-Pressure-Inside-Nice-Gullible
Silly-Used-Me-Moi-Easy-Running
Fallible-Annoyed-Love-Loss

written: February 1,2008
Like ’12 Months’ this is a word- association-experiment poem

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Meditation on a Sunday

No, it does’nt make sense
why we do the things that we do
why we kiss
why we touch
why we love who we love

the reasons can not be explained
to you
to me or
to anyone else

I wonder
when these vicious cycles
of love, infatuation and affection and leaving us to crawl back into our caves
and die
in peace, dreaming about the lives
that we never actually lived

(written: April 11, 2010)

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Filed under: that crazy,little thing called love,

Untitled VI

pizza delivery by bike
late night, hot summer night

new love, old love, found
lost love…

I have’nt seen you in years…
Do you recognize me?

Another cup of coffee…? Or tea?
Perhaps, a cigarette?

Oh, you don’t smoke? Dommage…
Can we sleep together, tonight?

In your bed or my bed? Under the sheets…bodies pressed together…

But, not sexually; tenderly,
lovingly… Good night…

See you in the morning…
(written: June 16, 2008)

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Filed under: desire,desire,desire...,

untitled poem by Bianor

I’m a nobody
no one special,
a nothing-
yet even I am loved.
Even I am master
of someone else’s soul.

(I love this poem because in those mere six lines, the poet reveals the crazy,ugly,possessive side of love. Love is not only the romanticized hand-clasped walks through the park and getting married or whatever, there’s a real side to it and it appears to be scary and a rollercoaster ride of emotions.)

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How Long?

How long could we talk
before the convo grew dull,
and we started to notice
the attractive people
on the sidelines?
How long could we touch
without leaving permanent marks
or entering each other through the damp, hot skin
by accident?
How long could we sit together
without the tension growing stronger,
our bodies about to explode
from the general, light, sheer contact?
How many poems could I write to you without realizing that I
have’nt sent you one with
actual meaning?
How long could you read to me
before realizing that I was’nt
listening to your voice, but
to your heartbeat instead?

written: November 9, 2009

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‘Sleepwalker Poet’ by B.Z. Nidtich

time mingles
with your own voice
in the empty room
full of furtive secrets
two almond eyes
waken by sunlight
near the blueprints
of your own body

demanding any life signs
from the long silence
of unspeakable loss
to unlock an unsound night
here in an early chill
you discover dark flashing
from blankets of fever
in an somnambulist dream.

under street lamps
picking the leaves
you crush pebbles of dust
of a nocturnal October
half-glimpsed
in the young frosted morning
you sleep on, sleep on.

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(What is this lie called love?)

What is this
lie called love?
What is this
thing called life?
What is this monster
I see, looking back
at me?
Why do I call
it a reflection?
Where is liberty?
When will we/I be free?
When will I stand with the trees?
…sleep with the stars?
…fly with the birds?

written: May 17, 2008

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Filed under: regarding myself

‘Passing Love’ by Langston Hughes

Because you are to me a song.
I must not sing you over- long.

Because you are to me a prayer
I cannot say you everywhere.

Because you are to me a rose-
You will not stay when summer goes.

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‘What She Said’ by Kaccipettu Nannakaiyar

My lover capable of terrible lies
at night lay close to me
in a dream
that lied like truth.

I woke up, still deceived,
and caressed the bed
thinking it my lover.

It’s terrible. I grow lean
in loneliness,
like a water lily
gnawed by a beetle.

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