“Color Me In Cyanide & Cherries” – The Book

She is the real deal, a poet, a genius, and a wonderful friend!

Color me in Cyanide and Cherry

lulu-02“Colour Me In Cyanide & Cherries” is my first book of poetry and it is finally ready to roam the world.

I am heavily pondering about what to write about it, accustomed to most of my readers already knowing what poems are in here, when and why were they written and so forth, so I am having trouble finding the way that could perfectly describe what the poems are about to a traveler, a roamer, a stranger.

Most of the poems from this blog are included in the book, some I skipped, some I added. The book is,for now, only available as a print book. I feel incredibly bad charging for anything(even more so when the available platforms mandate a hefty price in order for the writer to earn anything at all), especially for an e-book, since,like I mentioned, reading through this poetic haven of mine is like reading this book…

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Wordle #99 “February 29, 2016”

Week 99

I watch you jettison all that is
stale and luxurious from your suitcase,
the ground beneath us contesting wildly.
The temerity of your smile,
the kinesthesia of knowing
that which by all accounts is beyond
the reach of our famished senses.
I hold fast to your infrequent smiles
they are poultices, agreeable junctions,
crescents over a salubrious sky.
You are strange and contagious,
you are more than I ever dared to be.

The sea shrieks, her arms unfurl
reaching for our vagueness
and insecurity, at times clutching
but never quite managing to hold on.
If I were a force of nature
I too would be a sea
my foaming white maw
gobbling up anyone and anything
without an anchor attached.

I thought I could love you,
I tried desperately
and more often than not succeeded.
No choice of my own making
can explain your absence,
and no choice subsequently made
will ever truly explain my own.
We used to unpack our baggage
and now I find myself ticket in hand
with two suitcases overflowing.
I could travel but it is too expensive
in my own house, a guest,
in my own house, a thief
and you a thousand miles away uninvited.

Music Prompt #31: “I Can’t Escape Myself” by The Sound

My lips cradle your forgotten reliquaries.
I am dissatisfied with my meager existence,
with the unquenchable depths that are my fears.
So senseless, these stories with their grievous outcomes.
My senses are addictions, they shovel in horror after horror,
at least my brain is given to such ornery interpretations.
I hate my brain, how weak and sickly a thing, a brain.
I am polluted, sacred still, but markedly polluted
and I think that I should suffocate
if not for the occasional bout of laughter.

What reason have I to laugh
what reason could I possibly need?
I don’t like people in a collective sense.
We are an insatiable wake, always seeking
a definition that excuses our personal excesses
and prohibits the prosperity of others.
We envy everything, even the deficits,
even the illnesses of others because those scars
could be used to claim some benefit
for which we are not eligible given our fortune.

We are cruel to one another because in others
we assign our motives and in others we see
that which we find lacking in ourselves.
Beneath our frightful costumes
there is a child hurting,
an innocence indelible
and if we could only forgive
we’d see that we too are substantial.


Wordle #239


I am a maelstrom of transparencies
and coercions, whether in sincerity or jest
I gravitate toward the impossible
ever impulsive, often insane.

Even love succumbs to rage
in the absence of truth.
My hands wreathe and yearn
excavating letters from the stillness.
There is freedom in attack,
in the mating of instinct and aim.
I know only what I must do
not who I am and certainly
not what I will become.
The sun meanders through clouds
crisp as sheaves of paper, two by two
phrases collapse in mute misunderstanding.
How is it possible that these blood-soaked volumes
which prey so vehemently upon my heart
mean so little to yours?

The Disappearance of Sanity

I have accepted the training program at The Unemployment Office, it will provide me with a minimal income and hopefully lead to future employment. It is 4 hours a day but with the bus schedule as it is, if I can’t get any leeway, it will be more like 6 hours. I am not a flexible person and my time management skills are atrocious no matter what I do I am going to lose several hours to the great, untenable void that is Dissociation. Will I be left with enough time for my other responsibilities? At the moment I am just not certain if I can pull it off but it is presumably possible, as I was a student. The course starts this Monday and thus it may take me time to get my bearings. I still haven’t managed to reestablish my routine as is, February was a horrendously busy month. I am also worried about therapy because I am not certain I can ask for every other Friday off and I don’t see how I can do both given the distance between the locations and the horrifically long wait traveling by bus entails. My therapist’s hands on methods make me wonder if Skype would even be a possible compromise. The course runs for many months. I can’t skip therapy for several months. On another note while I was in the throws of mute hysteria on the bus (where I am nearly deaf btw) I received a call from the doctor, it seems that they messed up my Pap Smear and have to do it again. An appointment I now have no time to make (the woman’s clinic I go to is also very far away from where I take my job training).

Writing Prompt #147 “Collage 17” and Wordle #98

Collage 17

I remember you though the time for conversation has past,
I remember you though my heart has succumbed to scars
and to the false penitentiaries of a shiftless morass.

We do not meet anymore, your streets
are in the pockets of my flesh,
your streets are empty and filled with songs
too sad to be feckless and too wry to be clear.
At the mention of your name I laugh
until the laughter flows from my hollows
ugly and illogically vicious.
I have spent my entire life in captivity
decapitating bundles of lavender for Mr. Grimshaw,
their perfume staining my auxiliaries,
their perfume sleek and gutless in despair.

We were perfect for each other,
perfectly violent, perfectly repentant,
Your elocution betrays nothing.
I falter, a guest in stoic company.
Fingers twined, probabilities indignant.
I hold a box in my hands, overflowing
with our mishaps and superstitions.
Remember the garden? The gates crossed?
The flowers taken? Remember how once we felt
when once we had the audacity to feel?

Week 98


There’s nothing left but resonance,
the wafer-thin alliance of rejection
and habituation that inhibits denouement.
The sad realization that one is never
entirely without the other whatever the distance.

I loved her as the ocean loves the shore
wearing her mutinies into mere grievances,
ruining her wildness with my trance like tongue.
I never spoiled her without first damaging
the membranes between her dignity and my desire.
There is always someone willing
to resuscitate hate, old scars meticulously redrawn
year after year until one is either too numb
to acknowledge suffering or in too much pain
to comprehend anything other than its protraction.

She tugs at my tenements
my grey heart, my iron-fisted lungs.
She doubles as a spleen
when the sickness enters,
the last in a long line of useless moats.

She was terrible to me,
not just her kindness
but the scathing moments between.
She would have been happier
if I’d been a boy, a penis is mightier
than a pen and I’ve heard enough platitudes.

Loneliness is the only aphrodisiac
you’ll ever need; the desire to find
what is and ever will be irreplaceable.


I curtail the prodigal blue of your souring gaze,
a moment unto itself, a collision of scars and artifacts.
I can’t consolidate my past with your relentless nostalgia.
The stars do not cross, they drip
their nomadic splinters into my callused dreams.
Spinning circles, collecting flowers, writing
and everything we are is an exorcism
doomed to fail but perpetually administered.

Wordle #238


What is the cost of those keys
which no man, not even
the possessor, may hold?

Love comes whenever it comes,
a threat, a room open of its own accord.
In the topmost eaves the doves
rustle between their vagrancies,
imperceptible whispers
needle-fine and threading
through epitaphs of winter.

I go on loving,
though the feature has closed.
Case in point you no longer accept my calls.
The place of resurrection
has become the case of my death,
a slow ambulatory suicide
that smells of spent matches and tarmac.

There are too many windows between us.
My rubber soles exalt the pavement,
a slithering cascade of half-furnished farewells.
Pride dangling, orifices caged, never again
doesn’t beget the same appetite as forever.

I just can’t stop sneezing which is making it very hard to write