When you need an excuse not to get up in the morning

When you need an excuse not to get up in the morning,

fall asleep with many things on top of you.

A heavy, soft duvet.
A half-eaten snack your past self left for your future self.

Perhaps a flaky pastry leaving landmines of itself in your sheets.

A tall glass of ice water — left next to you, best not on top of you.
Your phone, playing the podcast you’ve been meaning to finish.
Your laptop, warm with a film streaming or half-written philosophies.
A book that refused to let you sleep, a real page turner.

And maybe best of all,
someone you love, pressed close.
Arms heavier than a duvet.
Traces of him threaded across your bed, more than any pastry.
Spit better than a glass of water at night.
Pillowtalk that becomes sleep,
that becomes sweet talk in the morning.

How come everything I write turns into a love-letter for you, lately?

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EREBUS

I come from chaos and earth and eros.

At night, I put honey under my tongue
I think it’s sweet and it makes me say less
Sticky tongues rarely make trouble
I’ll show my teeth instead
 
I like my teeth, I’d like to keep them
I like my skin, wrinkles make me nervous
I’m a good girl, I don’t drink, I don’t smoke
I like my teeth, I’d like to keep them
 
In the dead of silence, I keep my noise close
I say I won’t turn back but then I just might
I come from Chaos’ deepest crevices
I will return.

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samuel beckett walking down a street
sandals and a book bag
tanned and grey, what a looker
he's going somewhere!

now imagine we were there
just behind him, round the corner
balancing on one foot
waiting to snap a picture

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decided to walk to the supermarket
in need of some fruit and butter
passed by two coffee places
stopped at the one with the golden retriever at the door

same coffee served in different cups
i can't drink any more
can't hold the cups
my hands are just full of words

breeze moving the hairs on my neck
sun behind clouds makes me think there's something wrong with my vision
something new
i collect pieces of my walk in my book

i mistake the asparagus for something else
i laugh at my self
sometimes you need to laugh at yourself
i bought some of the asparagus

now walking back i can't remember
which street it was
the left the right the 4th the 5th
it's been getting difficult to distinguish

facts are never considerate of memory
i have come to understand
if you erase the past it is still there
gripping you with real images and impressions

the street was
how do i say this without sounding existential
the street was empty yet the air was full
i remember that

memory plays tricks on me
facts swoop in to save the day
remind me of the tangerines i did not buy
oops have to turn back again

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scents

i connect scents like a draw-by-numbers,

with moments and memories
like when you look at film negatives and

you can vaguely see - you can vaguely remember 

the moment.

blueberries on porridge is march
peaches in the sand is summer picnics
i go back to
landscapes of scents i forgot i owned

maybe i want to bottle these up 

and make perfumes.
i'd watch people smell them, i'd
notice the flare of their nostrils.

eager to know me.

i see you smelling my memory bottles
box fresh scents, exposed to you.
i hope you find something you like because
i will lend it to you, just as i am.

memories preserved.

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there's a bee in the kitchen

i turn pages and my brain is just words
(my hands feel dirty, this book is dusty)
i have my feet up on the blue table
toes frying in the sun from the kitchen window
my mother would be angry but
maybe later i'll tell her a story from my book
it smells like clementines
(i had some earlier)
so i hope that's okay
(it's their season)

but then i hear the unmistakable sound
the infamous buzzing of a winged player
she's here to distract me from the pages
to make me turn my head away
cause a commotion

there's a bee in the kitchen

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books

i mull over words, i think them over and over again; their placement, their tone, their lateness in reaching me.

i speak on words, i project my own meekness onto the words i hear. i tend to be a great listener, please always know i never want to interrupt. i pride myself in selflessness, let it wash over it until i'm in a liquid state.

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summer daze (days)

eating pomegranate and finding the seeds everywhere

in the bathroom surrounded by sand and aftersun

under my chair when i get up

in my pockets in my bowl in my teeth 

still peeling it

red lips and red teeth stained

too much on my mind

i should let it out

yet here i am

leaving the house again 

just to see. i'm just curious. 

and it's warm.

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