aosora

United Arab Emirates

meet me there someday

Message from Writer

don't swallow gold. i have two tablespoons of sorrow.

Published Work

growing pains / storm in a teacup


too much blood boils like street-side chicken soup
(no healing for human defecation, oozing brains
between mottled fingers) and too much blood
boils like playground monstrosities
blue-brown bark flakes simmering under touch
taller bones entail nothing more than knee jobs
the kind that whips joints into unknown spaces
and tells toddlers the best way to live between
broad strokes of childhood euphoria is to pull
jittery teeth by yourself
full stop now half stop
gums letting scarlet sorrow escape from old skin
don't beat the strangeness into thin toenails
they stretch for miles like unfinished pastures
fetch a pail of water
and drown in it


//


too little madness in this crook of world
apartment filled to brim with cold bodies
pressing numb words like birthday cakes 
squashed flat under unsuspecting happinesses
did the echo of wisp-stung hazy dreams sound
too familiar? did they sound like unrelenting
streams of salty tears cascading down marble
cheeks? sometimes, too little memory
births...

this is a ghost town, and i want to stay here forever


in the undergarments of a tattered fortress
there is an empty train station and 
the prospect of its nothingness does not thrill
me like it would do on an occasion so far 
removed from realism as this one,

carbon silence so cold and the strange 
reverb when it calls out to me, cracked 
like a hollow walnut,
so much platform and so little foot step
one of me on this side, youth at the blossom
tipping iceberg only just born and 
no friend in gloom tales, caustic paste 
promise of bold outlines so uninhabited,

thoughts cut short—

but there goes another apparition
another half of half of me (?)
shadows looming like ocean foam
undoing outsiderness with sorrow
i know it like the back of my palm
no love for kerosene studded bones
but i will live (?) tonight,

my poor platform aches onward
all aboard this pity party, or perhaps
not, pendulum lurching towards
the staying (rooted vagueness, 
cat-curiosity...

min yoongi


calico smile, fingernails nipped at bud
you are all i wanted to be

o my sweet marshmallow boy
slave of crushed shoulder and
ocean beds enveloping tinnitus ear
i see femur shards of my shriveled
thigh in your echoing chest

far too many words spill over 
empty dreams, soju shots
midnight terrors, you
wispy blond hair, you
tombstone shell, you
lighter fluid so whimsical
like orion gleaming in cloudless
december, i reach out to 
swallow your agony but nothing
stays 
nothing stays between my paltry 
fingers

o my silver lining boy
i hoped you'd have escaped 
the foaming fangs ripping 
muscle tissues in small 
blue heart, the kind of wound
that takes decades and innumerable
gramophone records to fill cracked
gaps in memory reels
three little griefs that last two lifetimes
bent over

i wanted no sadness of mine to ebb
(it was the only way i could feel alive)
i wanted no sadness of mine to ebb
(it was...

the great divide.


i.

dissonance born of bold, brown backs
and arabic calligraphy that spills from
skinned walls peeled at the midriff 
naked orange 
i swallow the zest, the seeds, the pulp
the insides of my mouth a mangled trophy
bastardly bones, resilience 
i tell the children it's best they do not eat hair 


ii.

it did not end in the clatter of china 
crashing from gypsum countertops 
it did not end in the whoosh of soulless 
banishment, no memorabilia eaten up
by kerosene 
it ended like a numb punch in broken gut 
bridging miles between two nightmares 
you, distant and free
you, distant and free


iii. 

time bubbles 
a memory that fades so so
they don't have a name for boys like you
that set glass bottles on fire and 
call it an irony of fate 
sometimes, suppressing the icy blue feel 
of crude nostalgia in cement veins 
is irreparably difficult 
and the great divide blasts open like a boil
we...

carousel


stunted skeleton of steel and carbon blue /
puffs of candy breath, broken child smiling /
two freckles peeking through folds of 
abandonment, impish tears too grubby
too enchanting to turn blind eyes to /
stiff horse twirling like a pixie in love with
midsummer blossoms, rest baby fingers on
weary handlebars / under starry veils of
blushing clouds, shrill laughter masking
crimson sorrow reverberating /
polaroid picture of your child for ten
dirhams
/ feverish daughter at the carousel /
refrigerated breeze nipping nose at pink tips /
the feel of hot metal on chest, warm necklace
comforted by empty body /
baby don't cry /
this is a small dream / this is too cruel / this
is a solace for older days / for when crass sorrow
boards up in exhausted throat / no soprano 
in ghost orchestra / medusa world cracked in half /
no turning melancholy to gold / no sleeping 
these nightmares away /


 

vignettes of a drive-in cinema


two full moons sip qahwa by rose-gold dunes/ clammy scent clings to the july sky/ bitter aphrodisiac stripped/ naked in porcelain tombs 

nothing feels like nothing/ between gold plated molars and/ the glint in the smile of airy teenagers/ that birth the weight of loneliness in open graves/ they say the wound does not hurt/ in cold blue flesh/ in the decay of dead dreams 

all of the desert at midnight/ tastes like too much swallowed ink/ insides of unkissed mouths gaping like nietzsche's void/ there is no love for children who do not cry/ and madness seeped with kerosene/ kicks up a warm storm on shredded eyelids

kaze ga totemo aoi/ four rifts in the seam of being/ close the dismal space between hollow legs/ no red strings shall be born of vacant paradises/ lips cracked beyond droughts/ aches that fall asleep

 

portrait of a gas station at 3 am


everything slows to an oppressive crawl
but the steel sentries lay awake,
ears cocked for miscreants, spray-painted van goghs
on a budget.
two silver cars rooted in the parking lot
house innumerable instances of speedy kisses
and entangled stilettos. tinted windows rolled down. 
heavily misted whispers escaping parted pink lips.
car joggling, joy stick harmonies.
pavement glistens like slick skin toiling by the bedpost,
feverish yellow street-light sticking out coldly;
sore thumb, arrogant eye at the irrelevance of
human limbs clutching throbbing throats, cough drops,
fingers of snubbed lovers.
hallucinate between hostile aisles of
convenience stores, stale bread and part-time workers
holding back three gallons of tears; drown this
lust for sorrow in coffee grounds. in beer cans.
watery clouds stinging in chests and flammables 
that cling to disheveled clothes. 
pay in cash. grubby palms. 
pocket of universe painted so lonesome.
pocket of universe so hushed.




 

i break myself into sizeable bits so you can taste me better


some moments i cherish dearly
like the pale yellow flooding my
bathroom when the day has lived
halfway through itself
like the scent of ginger infusing
in piping hot chai when the mornings
bolt themselves shut in my empty
throat
like the glossy photographs of me
smiling, dark brown eyes
too big, too precious
too un-tethered
like the small sadness welling up
when i listen to son lux's aquatic
old melodies too fresh to forget
too cruel to let go
like the faint listlessness of 
bitter realization as i wake 
from a dream irrevocably sweet
of he who lives in my head
and of he who dies there too
today, i will live 
perhaps i will see the night
knocking on my windows slowly
and i will show numbness the door
her pallid face burning holes in
all this skin
but this is borrowed time 
and i must leave now


 

in the mood for old memories


looney toons / this television crackles / a hissing static monster / three year old tongue /
licking / licking / licking /
all these fairytales / brain laughs / bubbling chin / blasphemous child /
too old to remember / too tired to care


 

ao / sora


morning explodes in my chest and 
i have long since forgotten this
scent of soothing madness 
like warm kicks to the mouth
i awaken on the foot of my bed
hung upside-down in my steel cocoon
i do nothing like steer winds 
or weave little stories 
instead i dream of threadbare wings
there is no butterfly at the end of
my life
no escaping this blistering summer
skies slip through my fingers
is letting go my sin? 
i want the clouds to sing to me
wailing angels strangling their silky harps
blue-blooded-bruised-bone
my nightmares collapsing into my 
days
aosora aosora aosora 
and i do not sleep anymore