observatory (3)

Everything was muffled into silence. Even the tiny contraption that had always signified life on the other end was still. The only vibrations detected by my eardrum were the memory of the quivering acoustics of your breathing the night we last slept beside each other and the reality of the curtain blown wildly by the indifferent wind. The ashtray where I had laid my last stick of the moontime exhaled fumes, and flashes of your mirage filled my eyes and became a white shadow of Phrixos swimming in a sea of illusion of our bodies in smoke and constellations...

What title, you say

What are you doing? You don’t own me. You don’t own yourself. Don’t talk to me about pride, ego, self-respect, self-love, or whatever the fuck. You say you lost your self-esteem. You see, it’s probably because you damn love yourself too much. Don’t tell me about order versus chaos. Words are mere fucking words, infinite, desultory, illusory, spoken incantations, written dramatizations, gestured ostentation.  I am chaos, you say. I am the perfect manifestation of distraction, clad in a symmetrical human anatomy that is not even close to Vitruvian...

A Poet’s Love Letter to His Muse

Words, How have you been? Where did you hide yourself when you were so ashamed that I felt ashamed to have turned my back on you? I wanted to break you for not giving me enough and for giving me too much in the wrong chances, false places, forgotten time. You see, the better half of words has gone missing for a long time now. And I found myself looking at people as if they own you, Words, and I can’t take you with me, back to my solitude of smoke and liquor. You probably got tired of me, of my loneliness, of my rage, of my rigmaroles,...

élan

constellations float in the dark, underlining your face, italicizing your eyelashes with their lights beaming through the leaves, bowing down to the gravity that pulls my lips to trace the rubious threshold that exhales the whisperings of your aching anima— transcending science, from physical to the metaphysical, to the cosmic pursuits of our paphian gestures and gung-ho kisses, breaking the fourth wall of our phantasmagoric overtures. xtopherdelax 2...