Universe Aftertastes

There is an aftertaste of the universe in my mouth
light years away from the crumbling insides of my self.
They have started pouring themselves into my void
and I've been swallowing the vastness
they slip through the insides of my breasts, tummy 
through my legs and down my feet.
My feet.
The sand under them have been rolling away with the retreating waves,
I'm shorter with each lick
until I can see my feet no more,
they're buried in sand:
the universe is finding its way back to the ocean.
My fingertips are atoms
and they burst into pixie dust
as I try to grasp my galaxies
but they slide away into the waters
though the pores in the sand,
air bubble worlds in the froth.
I can't go after it because I can't swim, 
drowning actively isn't an option.
I can't die like that.
Well,
It's going to take a while
but
I can't see my ankles anymore.

High

I’ve never lived in homes with ceilings low,

breathing on me

like the open windows don’t belong

within the walls;

they’re too stumped,

buckling,

falling,

pressing.

I live now in an old apartment

and it seems like yesteryears were full of people like me

who didn’t want buckling walls ,

let tall lovers graze their homes with no apprehension,

believing in the power and beauty of them high ceilings:

untouchable bases of everyday living,

a space that lets you move.

It lets you explore.

It lets you jump.

Jump because I jump sometimes

in joy,

I shoot up when someone tickles me

an involuntary happiness that I can’t contain

it just spills and reaches out of my body.

I shoot.

Shoots, yes.

I want a lot of them, green from the top

hanging from my indoor skies,

vines filling for the veins of the walls,

pots and plants scaling my thoughts,

upright striving

and a safe space for their flowers to bloom.

I love high ceilings and I can’t lie,

not in houses alone

nor at work or that breakfast diner on my street

but at the psychiatrist’s office

or that bar that was once a bank

and in funeral homes.

The soul needs space to leave that body,

an outworn piece of clothing

the music needs to bounce,

it needs to echo, to want to dance in the presumed void;

it lets me dance with my beloved I bring home

and should he want to carry me high up

straddle my soul on his hips,

breasts at his lips

I want nothing to touch, no ceiling to hold on to

except the high cheekbones of his face.

I can’t be put in places with low ceilings,

they make me seems bigger than I am,

a giant,

an illusion of being free to accomplish goals

and I am not sure that is me.

The high ceilings are a friend

long lost

walls holding them up for me.

They meet me with open, blank slates

my art has the space to breathe,

the poems are up on my walls

living in sprouting light,

shadows incarnated.

When I’m head flat, water in my ears

in the bathtub

naked and suspended of social intrusions

I like looking at the light playing with the blinds

behind my back;

a fresh canvas

not breathing down on me or pressing me,

coercing me to be big

but a tender look that allows my insignificance to manifest.

The crown moulding looks at me like a lover,

the walls let me touch them

slow, I write in the air.

I once read this story about a man who filled his walls

with art, poetry and words,

ceiling resplendent with the words of others

until he hung himself from the fan

and I can’t help but think

how high his ceiling was

because these words can float,

they need no tethering,

they are little free lives in themselves

and if you put them in a box

and throw a person like me in it

I can never make peace with those words

and art, arrogantly mine.

I need the volume to love and it’s important that I love

because that is when I

and the colours

and the words I string

are most beautiful

and should you come to my funeral when I am gone,

I don’t want these words haunting you:

making you cry, kissing you against your will

but makes you rise and pluck words from my space

creating your poems from mine already dead,

streak it with colours

to later tell people about me

with a smile:

That funeral was hauntingly beautiful

and then,

Remember to look up

because

I am probably still there. 

I do not own this image. Collected from Pinterest.

Hemu 

Home?

I woke up one evening to a late summer sun that lives far beyond

its days of regular hours of light

to be situated in movement, in dynamism,

flitting between my lands of illusion and perceived reality.

I searched for landscapes that I’ve known to see by virtue of comfort

in between content sleep and momentary awakenings.

When I travel,

there are reassuring dim lights outlining mounds of back-lit mountains

with their own gaudy colours and early night's chatter.

My father in the front seat:

awake and seriously holding a conversation with the driver while

the speakers float in a language 

I comprehend at the most intimate level.

I woke up in a car racing back ‘home’.. Or what I should call home.

It took me three whole minutes to realise where I was

after the remnants of deep slumber

resting itself in the nooks of my breasts awoke

to transience.

Ten months in this city

and I still wake up from every deep slumber

to unfamiliarity.

Why, the dogs here never stop. 

They don’t have the time to stop.

They’re smiling and following the tug on their leash

following their human who has taught them to sit up straight and act like a dog,

to not lick the faces of people they love and act like a dog.

Don’t jump on her, those clothes will get dirty! Act like a good dog!  

They apologise for their furry companions sometimes,

‘I’m so sorry, He loves people.’ they say

and I want to just strip free of the collars round my neck,

strained attempts to ridiculous decorum

and roll by their side and fight in the mud;

because

familiarity to me is turning into my street

and whistling to have five street mongrels at my side.

They jump, they paw, they lick

and I could wash their freaking ticks away if I ever contracted any

But their love stays on across the seas for all the times they've listened to me

with crooked ears and curious eyes.

And so,

every single time I see a well-behaved dog outside my window

after a slumber so deep that I don’t realise where I am,

I miss being home where chaos was more unruly with herself,

flirting with the orderliness of monotony...

I finally understand what homesickness really means.

But now, I'm not sure I know what home means.

-Hemu

Terribly Tiny Love Letters 09: Love Loaves

There is a lilting memory from my pauses at a bus stop.
The smell of bread loaves being baked travels through the air,
across and around where I stand.
I've never seen this place that bakes this best smelling sweet bread
and I know not the origins and the special ingredients.
I wonder if it tastes as good as it smells: like heaven,
because
I've never tried to follow the music of these loaves;
only content to take in the smell and imagine its taste
during an everyday interim.
Just like how I've had you in my heart and thoughts
all this while;
dreaming in real life and living there
while you, my love, loaf around
outside my reality.

~Hemu

Image Source: http://stjohnstreet.co.uk/pictures-next-stop-brick-lane/