theme
raspberries and rum
Home  Ask  Archive  Etc.  

Astronomers say the galaxy's centre tastes of raspberries and smells of rum.

3

We aspire to become the roses we see draped in champagne dew

Behind rusting iron fences; the wild underbrush with its fingers twisted around the spires

But we shall become the thorns that prick our wrists while opening the gate

So we mold these fingers into weapons unworthy of hiding in bouquets

And shroud them anyway, behind Oleander and Lilies

We let them burn and crumple in the unforgiving heat

Tasting every balmy flavor of summer nectar

Until all that’s left is an arid bouquet facing away from the sky

And the wilting sun in the warmth of tender, late July

2

2

(Revision of something I’ve written previously)

Burning irises kiss poppy fields.

Monet’s blood-red poppies, stretching for miles along rivers hot enough to simmer.

The sun cups its tender hands around a child who bathes languidly in the warmth of summer’s rays.

The glittering light seeps into her copper hair and rosy cheeks – a vision of gold in the empty countryside.

Pluck nine crimson petals from a painted blossom and string them across sun-burnt skin.

Hardly a contrast of hues, it seems.

Submerge fragile knees into bubbling water and lay the soaked cotton beneath the fierce heat of summer’s spell.

Let thick clouds roll in and stuff the blushing sun into its stormy pockets.

Let torrents of rain slam its fists upon dry earth, and freshly-washed laundry.

Upon strawberry hair and thirsty poppies.

3

1

Silver light dripped over your fingers like paint,

Staining your bony knuckles and seeping deep into your skin.

The glittering warmth spread through your veins and shone through your eyes.

I could see it clearly then,

How you lit up like a match at the sound of her voice,

Her crisp, winter voice that trilled and dipped and sang and laughed.

In truth, I wanted to steal that light, to steal your gaze, to take those eyes.

Just once.

Just to feel that overwhelming sense of love that makes her voice sing, so.

But it’s wrong to covet, it’s wrong to steal, it’s wrong to envy another.

So I make my own moonlight.

4

Haven’t written in so long. It’s truly invigorating.

I stood before the full moon as it flickered like a dying bulb. My bare toes dug into the November frost with a tender eagerness — ready to spring away from the Earth in a moment’s time. Hanging in the sky like a swollen summer plum, the moon dripped in an unmistakable gleam, pouring a gentle light over the shadowy landscape like honey. I breathed in the stinging winter air, letting the cold fill my lungs with a smoky sweetness. After a long exhale, I laughed in cruel happiness as my breath danced its way to the moon and cupped its fingers around her chalky porcelain cheeks. Don’t you find it funny? The way we tease her with warmth like merciless lovers do to virgin souls? It’s incredible, indeed, how the universe is able to mimic our sins.

18

Thirsty poppies.

Burning irises kiss poppy fields.

Monet’s blood-red poppies, stretching for hours along rivers hot enough to boil.

Pluck nine petals and string them across sun-burnt skin,

Hardly a contrast of hues, it seems.

Let torrents of rain slam its fists upon dry earth, and freshly-washed laundry.

Upon strawberry hair and thirsty poppies.

10

A Haiku.

Dark days upon us,

Discord laced with anarchy,

The flames brush our souls.


The charred city falls,

The sky ablaze with fire,

We will fight this war.

9

A Haiku.

The waves rise and fall

Mimicking your steady breaths.

Let us be the sea.

12

A Haiku.

I’ll covet you, dear.

Like the stars and every sea.

Darling, you’re all mine.

11

The universe has given us so many things that appeal uniquely to each one of our senses. The smell of the rain for our delicate noses. The soft notes of the piano for our eager ears. The sweetness of sugar for our thirsty tongues. The feel of the smooth waves for our fragile bodies. The beauty of art for our always-searching eyes. For everything we touch, taste, see, smell, hear…is a magic to which nothing can compare.

62

I like songs that are hauntingly beautiful. The ones that course through your veins like a thick, dark sadness, allowing suppressed thoughts to surface and flutter through your mind like long-lost friends. And when the last note is struck and resonates in your ear like an echo, that feeling of subtle heartbreak is inevitable. Those kinds of songs make me feel, if you know what I mean. Those songs stay with me, and that’s why I love them.

106