poetryA collection of 39 posts

Took my meds and checked the chat
Someone’s wife just shaved her head
Someone else says, “Fuck this fog.”
Missed her kid’s school thing again
Marked the day but still forgot
Wrote it down in three damn apps

Tried to clean. Forgot I started
Filled the sink and walked away
Area rugs need a shake
Clam inside, I don’t unfold
Some days offer only brine
Some days hold a hidden pearl

Still, the group chat’s making jokes
Someone found a lace-trimmed robe
Says she aced it at her scan
Says she’s claiming glam as spite
We don’t talk about the ones
We don’t see in chat again

Hope feels sharp and soft at once
Some days, even teas taste wrong
Wife says, “Baby, rest is real.”
So I call that getting things done
Some days I just hare off after
Something I forgot to want

Nevyřčený zvuk se svírá v čtvrthrst slov,
přečtěte smršť třpytů ztracených v záhybech řeči.
Skřípání štěrků štípe zuby i jazyk,
čtvrť věty se láme v neklidném drnčení,
řeč drhne—ztrácí třpyt, hledá tichý dech.

Klokken rekken zich,
stenen strekken,
smeltwater ruist door kasseien,
druppels vloeien, adem ontstaat.

De Vltava rilt,
splijt haar huid,
mist vlucht,
bruggen dampen,
de stad vervaagt in rimpelend licht.

Stemmen sijpelen uit stegen,
stappen ketsen,
Praag schudt, strekt,
spiegelt zich in ontdooide tijd.

She begins brittle,
tightly curled,
a rustle of dry whispers
waiting for a reason to unfurl.
I linger, calm and quiet,
until her need stirs me,
kindling the flame
that calls me to boil.

When I pour over her,
a slow, burbling warmth
that saturates her edges
like it smolders in my core,
she blooms under my caress,
folds unraveling in my heat.
The turbulence stirs us,
so that every part of me
meets every part of her.

Curling fingers rise,
the air thickens;
She steeps in me,
I draw the flavour from her.
We become one together,
More than either of us alone.
The swelter inside me,
the richness within her-
we become something new
in this act of alchemy.

Beneath a tattered coat, it haunts the street,
A mongrel tongue with mischief in its eyes.
It lifts what other languages repeat,
Then cobbles words and swears it’s neat and wise.

From Gaelic glens, it pockets "whiskey" neat,
And Saxon hoards are crammed into its sleeves.
It pilfers French with charm both sly and sweet,
Then grabs what German drops and quickly leaves.

No words are safe—it snatches what it likes,
It lifts the Arab cipher, Latin charts.
It swipes a Norseman’s saga, Dutchman’s dikes,
And builds a patchwork form from stolen arts.

It shifts and twists, unbridled and untamed,
A brash imposter, deaf to what it maimed