Road Accident

My relation
. s h i p s.
to a one-way
highway
and I'm
driving to a
dead end.

My feelings
the pedal
at full speed,
your responses
the rusty
break
failing
corroding
any chance
of airbag.

Flat tire
a couple of
swerves
and two round
white lights:
C.r.A.Sh.

Love and Communication

My girlfriend:
Your next poem is this poem.

You’re selfish.
You’re incredulous.
You’re everything I wish I didn’t understand.
You’re everything I should run from and you inhabit my space.


Get the fuck out of my osmotic bubble flesh eating virus.


Selfish.



So selfish.


Start your poem. The last words to the end of mine.


I am dried up in the gaze that slashed and cripples my skin beneath this down comforter.




Fucking parasite.



AND WHEN YOU YOU YOU READ THIS….

It's not you.


It's not the form in which was meant for you YOU.

You are all of this and non of this because the problem…Watson.


It's this.

Im the mirror.

Myself:
I am the mirror.

But the reflection to it is shattered and makes me nervous.

The glass? You broke it yourself and you’re asking ME, ME to pick them up?
Darling, pick them up yourself, then we’ll talk.

Then I’ll really be incredulous to the idea that you cannot see.
Then I’ll be an atheist amongst all these people who can only follow and follow and numb and numb and run run run…

I ask myself if you don’t ever get tired of running… ‘cause I’m here looking around and I don’t see any medals, or trophies. But hey, it’s your high.


Poem

written in one fine punch in the stomach.

And I vomit nothing.

Too High to Title This

I dreamed that
I was high
and never woke up.

Bliss. At all times.
This dude walks up
to me, his facial
expressions are of
pure apathy:
“Raffaella, your
best friend died”.

I laughed.
Not because I thought
he was joking,
but just because.

I walked away
and cooked myself
scrambled eggs
on a 2-week
dirty pan.
Amusing is how
eggs fry and
have these tiny
little explosions
within.
It’s tragic but
inevitable, and
let’s be honest:
what’s tragic
is usually very,
very funny.

So I laughed
one more time.

As I sat down
to eat, while
pushing aside
piles of clothes
I barely recognized,
perhaps because
I’d forgotten to
do laundry or
because they were
strangers’, I stopped
to think if I hadn’t
to be somewhere
important, like work.
Not work, dumbass,
you’re dreaming,
you don’t work in
your dreams.

So I smiled because
I did not have to
work and I laughed
until my lower back
cramped at those who had
to work.

Ha.
Amazing.

I questioned,
like a good follower
of Descartes , if
I was dreaming or
was high or wishing so
bad I was high that
I had made myself believe it.
If the later, then I could
turn my thought into a religion!
Picture this slogan:
“Work your mind in
such high degree of
meditation to
reach the state of
Cannabiska”,
which would just be a
fancy Indian word for
“being high”.
Incredible.
I would be the
modern messiah.

So I laughed again,
and spent the rest
of what you people call time
laughing until I slept
and it all started again.

Emergency

Diagnosis:
Severe inexistence of any existence aggravated by chronic osmotic lethargy.

Prognosis:
Metastatic and illogical repetition of circular patterns.

Cause:
Death by caffeinated heart.

Resurrection:
Attempt #1: Corporal heating through human touch. Failed.
Attempt #2: Manual blood pumping on heart. Failed.
Attempt #3: Verbal encouragement by masking a shitty life with empty promises and hope. Failed.

Hour:
6:06 pm.

The Magician

keys
to my own
prison.

heavy,
in my pocket,
lethal,
to the definition
of home
on that book,
sitting on the
top
shelf.

the trashcan
gobbled them up.
(I starved for air)

repeating verbatim
of my broken years:
It’s anywhere
and everywhere
and I found it
nowhere.

Mrs. LockSmith
across the street
was touched,
she said she never met
someone who could break
into so many locks like me:
with no particular
Key.

I lacked in keys,
I lacked in better references,
I lacked in height to reach
still I entered
still I understood
still I looked from above.

Hairdresser

I combed my
twisted hair,
hoping to
unknot
my thoughts.

But my image
reflected on the
mirror
had never
been this dead before.

The stranger, the difference he made, he will never know

The man in the subway
smiled at me:
he knew my smile was
safe and serene,
he thought I was whole
and upright,
and just because he thought so
I started believing in it too.