volume 1

"one year of poetry
and dumb photography"

78 pages, 16 poems
written between sept '23
and august '24

sold out

Under the blue canopy fortress, my very own nuptial nest; there's a tiger guarding my bed
and a poster that says "every which way she can".
I'm feral too, still youthful despite the hundred needles hunting for my blood -
everytime I try to leave the million roses of my mattress.
I'm my very own physician, the chemist and the clinician; since my body turned against me,
steadily becoming the jar I'm rotting in. I'm being domesticated,
each day a little more; whilst my favorite flowers are the ones that die
when you put them in a vase. At least my roses, they never tried to stab any skin whatsoever.
But they never tried to deflate my bloated sluggish guts either

Sheets are clean, hair - untangled; food organic
and the kitchen’s immaculate.
It’s peaceful and terribly quiet.
Not a single step aside, not a single risky move outside.
At least you’re sober now, you can tell by the amount of water you sip through the day.
You swam all summer and never been this tanned.
That can be explained by the size of your bikini, the tiniest you ever worn.
You're carrying fewer and fewer stories along the years.
Truth is water slides down your body now; your past might appear strangely wave-free.
Pieces of your skin float outside somewhere;
unsigned as you keep on swallowing every memory that could resurface.
You're not getting any nutrients from it, so keen to make the most of a meal;
how useless is the past to a lazy river

Here comes the reign of the never ending days,
paving the way for the brightest of nights.
We’re so alike, I fear the snakes and the lizards
which exist to praise the sun solely;
scaled monks with a restless mind,
lively, taking a break -
all the patterns are ours to recognize,
all feelings ours to jeopardize
when, again; it’ll be hiatus’ turn to shine

I already know the mountain tops
are trusting cold beds for memories,
a silken coffin safe from a heated heart,
a place to preserve our prayers until next time.
I wanna burry my feet into the sand,
to get the nicest tan until my skin
be burnt enough
to defy winter’s return.
Heaven of rest for the cold-blooded,
haunted nightmare for a child of the Sun

I fear them, for they will prevail.
They’ll be numb and dormant and safe

I was born during a summer storm, aiming for a revenge September yearly brings