BookRix

My Retina's Nostalgia

She has the smallest hands
I've ever seen
and fingerprints,
like ink-drops in zero gravity.
Reach me darling!
Reach me,
like the tiny shadows,
announcing darkness
in the corners of my eyes.
Her small hands...
she is moving them so slowly,
only with a feeling of motion,
but no motion
within her move.
Nothing more,
than an echo of existence,
described best
as a word,
crumbling before it's spelled.
Scene is,
this empty museum of amnesia,
which will be storeroom,
not for blind desires,
but my retina's nostalgia.
Here will I leave you
my beloved particulars.
Fare thee well,
for you're alas to heavy,
to be placed in such small hands.

-Kerim Mallée

Your Own Word's Prey

My biggest crime,
my most fatal guilt,
was believing
that the meaning of poetry,
is to transform thistles into roses.
But POETRY is just another word for CHANGE,
and there is no change,
when you take a thorny plant
and transmute it into a plant with thorns.
Writing is a cruel business.
You have to catch the world
which is encompassing you,
till the truth lies in front of you,
notched out and flayed.
You have to do this,
you have to splatter ink and speech,
over the rotting body of TODAY.
So let your words be an army of red ants,
that gnaws the meat of perception
off the corpse named reality,
till the bare bone is uncovered.
You have to do this,
because of the day,
when your ashes will float away with rain
and there is no one left to spill
a tear for,
no one left with tears to dry,
no one,
but the orphaned daughters of a pen.
So there is obviously no time
for small talk,
when you are anxious to avoid
becoming your own word's prey.

-Kerim Mallée

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