———
C. A. Singh • this is not a poem about him
2018
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From Caroline Grand-Clement’s chapbook, Abecedarium of Want, available at https://bottlecap.press/products/want
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obsidian
obsidian crag! toss me anew
into the jagged mountain
range of your love. heat spewed
magma formed forever into
a reminder of what it once was.
would that be possible for you and me?
to crystallize the possibility of us
into darkened, serrated, minerals
of what we could have been?
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irreverence
where does it all come from, anyway?
this irreverent attitude towards life
embedded in us. we're creatures privileged
enough to step back and boldly ask -
"what am i?"
as if our existence isn't some sort of
cosmic miracle unexplainable by the
limited range that words have provided
us. As if there was no mystery to remain.
"i'll find a way to make this worthwhile"
just to carry on in toxic fuel and blind
consumption. masqueraded by social media posts
that spew nonconformity and which
state to the world:
"i'm better than this."
as if the energy expenditure required
to run the databases which carry that message
through microfibers across the world
isn't fueling the very system we claim to renounce.
"i'll find a way out"
as if the "i" existed separately from the "we"
of the interconnectedness of the cosmos.
how could we be more than that?
on this planet that luck allowed us to inhabit
as if we deserved it
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"so this is what it's like to fight giants" - sebastian https://www.instagram.com/gm.dl13/p/CZGIjobF3MU/?utm_medium=tumblr
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matthew 7:3
how very god-like
of you. to create faith from
fear and ask for suffering as a
testament of my devotion. is
it not enough? to have me on
my knees, open-mouthed, to
receive communion and
recite your holy prayers?
on top of this, you'd like to see
me ridiculed, flogged, and
crucified to prove my worth.
to cleanse me of my sins.
but what about yours?
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otra pa'ti
la luna, el mar, y tu.
moonlight waltzes
on the surface of the
waves, and it reminds
me of the way you
could move in and out
of me. las olas crecen
con el jalo de la luna;
como tu me jalas a mi,
y luego me empujas.
yo - la tierra, y tú - la agua.
siempre moviendo en
direcciones diferentes.
y la luna nos cuida,
nuestro amor que
siempre nos quiere
traer juntos.
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lovers
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by c-h-e-r-i
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mary jane
i want to call her and tell her how much
she means to me. but she's in love and i,
i don't have much to offer. so, i'll write it
instead; about the way my eyes
grew legs trying to follow her around. or
about the way my restraint went on vacation
which compelled me to force her against
the wall, until my hands turned to ashes
in a futile attempt to avoid her flesh -
crematorium where bodies of her lovers
go to die of desire. like fire, she both consumes
and ignites - regardless of the outcome.
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a series of unhinged thoughts
she calls me her girl
but goes home to a
woman who plays her
like a familiar instrument
i wonder if she, too
is used to being used
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the mistress of
possibility rested her
head on my chest
at night
while my addiction to
the worst part of myself
unhinged
desperate to taste
venom from the fang
of the snake
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
i hate the way she makes me feel
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bark
bruises on my skin
like bark on conifer
to be peeled and
ripped in an
aesthetic attempt at
protection
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092421
You creep into my mind like
condensation - suddenly
all over me, dripping, cold
to the touch - inescapable.
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cactus needles
the way that words come out
often feel like a visceral
exodus of emotions
through my favorite medium -
the pen.
writing poetry is like pulling
the prickly cactus needles out
of every inch of my body
painful
delicate
exhausting
much like the pain i inflict on
myself. i'm not sure how this is
better.
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haiku
she radiates her
love through and around me, while
i melt in her arms.
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Six Word Story
Always you, but never the time.
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phantoms
spirits frighten me -
the phantoms of
my suppressed emotions
lurk maliciously in
creaking floorboards
and flickering lightbulbs.
in disembodied
voices who i hear
whispering the secrets
which i house. ridiculing
me: “you’ll never be
enough”, they echo
the translucent truths
i hide from myself. ghosts
which can’t be exorcised
by any holy preacher.
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