Archives for posts with tag: poetry

How do you know if what you are writing is poetry or just random randomness? Some poetry does not speak to my sensibility as such (quite often, actually, I’m afraid), so I am sure¬†what I write does not sound as real poetry to others also.

How can you tell? I am asking to learn more about it from a reader’s perspective, not an academic one.

Thanks in advance ūüôā



Horizontal lines golden

all tree branches


two gorillas under a warm,

fabricated waterfall

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

You nibble and fondle each other

with paws that stretch

further and further

muzzles that drink

every drop of dew

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

He roams the house

for something to protect

his hands

Opens the fridge for answers

to these wrongs

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

It comes with a sense

of bewilderment

a tell-tale eye-roll

and an inevitable

why not?

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

They race past each other

we hate past no other

limit but our bitter

sorrows can bear

or can’t

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

Are we empty cogs

and gears?

I can’t say I’ve¬†gone

all the way and back

or who ever could

I am afraid of this engine

where I combust

But the gorillas hear

the calming sound

of the warm water


on little brown pebbles

And fear no engine

And never burn.





What can I do

if I want

to be sexed

by men with

Angels’ names

and firm hands

gentle tongues

subtle plans

and ingenious


find me astray

for a moment

when they crept

with no warning

while waiting

our watches

to finally


Cold                    Fear

Relief                  Lost

Fair                      Agony

As I wait for you to come

I think of all the faces I have given you

All the names I have called you

Come or not

Death                Wishes

Warm                Lonesome

Erase                  Sex

I silenced

the smile

that was on

my face


when you

were definitely


with that girl


Forgive me

it was capricious

so bold

and so cheap

the force that bound us

was transient

as the clinging sounds

of breakfast

Trembling for that bitter sweet liquor I have grown used to

Joy, sir, is the word for it, as the fantoms never fail

to provide, the realms of admonished benevolence

where my entrance is no longer allowed, where my mind

dwells in erratic rambles. How could you know it?

What do you think you are to kiss me with this solid embrace,

to caress my hair with imperfect words, to be illuminated

by this unmerciful sun and, yet, to stand tall beneath it?

What do you know about all that pierced me, penetrated me

tattooed my skin with lust, revulsion, boredom, vanity

the frivolity of bodies and of hope? It is Turkey Season

again I am being gutted by my own skilled fingers

to be stuffed, roasted, decorated and served for dinner.

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