I am replicate Dickinsonian flower,
My original passed by first species.

You are your fakes ,at a conspiracy.
You are trying to steal a death wish.

I will hide my will under a silk pillow.
I am a duplicate body in a fake soul.

I love noon’s light from original sun.
My words drop duplicates of sound.

Please close window to a fraud sun
It is not what I wrote in a testament.

My syntax is a duplicate of original.
A sentence lies in confusion of soul.

Words bloom and drop like flowers,
In the duplicate noon of a fraud sun.

(Reading Emily Dickinson’s poem “It Bloomed and Dropt”)



My earth is fire of girl memory
It’s breath , whiff of sea’s wind.

I have forgotten half of a body
Running on half of its memory.

Give back my other half, Apollo,
My atmosphere back to a touch,

To taste dew in a blade of grass
To hear a rustle of wedding silk.

(After Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself in Leaves of Grass)

Anonymous poet

I prefer rain of the moths to stars,
Like coal particles borne by wind

Or tiny water particles swarming
A window glass, making specters

Of men against mountains in sea.
I prefer insects of coal’s particles

Exfoliating a pale skin of the wall
Like flowers, on anonymous poet.

I prefer flies buzzing about death.
They are free flying like a poetry.

I prefer the “I Prefer” of freedom
Of words whizzing past like flies.


Poet’s sad steps recall a sadder moon
Cleaned and fine cut in cotton clouds.

Moon stays sunk in the far sea below
As the poet forgot to get up for a piss

An hour before a sea would wake up.
Are not nights when we are sleeping ?

Men’s cuss words are day’s dead fish
Causing a red anger in hunger’s belly.

Are not days where we are cursing in?
After we are no more larking at dawn

There will be day after day in the sea
As waves will roll on in  endless time.

(After Philip Larkin’s poems ‘Days” and “Sad Steps“)


Baby ,here you are an excess,
When you navigate between

Furniture, holding on edges
To the world , you cry aloud,

And you explore its borders
And you fall and hurt a chin

And there is cyclone in eyes
Excess of a wind over water

But the eyes quickly recover
Their sunshine through rain.

Your salt is an excess of tears.
They dry up a hurt of failure

Over the edges of furniture,
An excess of life over death.