an instantiation of
irradiating light could be
one of two things: the approach of heaven
neither of which will succeed in being absolute,
but merely sears a scarred rock afloat a senseless rhythm
the satisfaction of completion : splayed
at the foot of the mountain, first conquered
once more, the seduction
of the nascent begins
with a stroke of the elbow
- cannot stay unpregnant for long -
the children born may not be recognisable
they will germ the earth with contagion
before long. it’s always
one way or the other depending
on which side of the mirror
you stand or which side of the planet
around here people imagined a time when people did the things they'd like to be doing,
crowds gather to announce to one another: "listen, I'm barely listening,"
senseless flows of accumulation and release draw sinuous currents through the city's terrain;
dropped more time-money spinning round & around, circles are the natural shape of addiction
a personal trainer's reminder : only eat egg shells from now on
to buy more freedom, sell your current freedom please
marching meekly under the banners of "MORE" and "MOTION",
this swarm runs from the rumours of fear
what violence is required to protect a dissatisfied life?
humanity is the real plague
attention saunters beneath the glare of a fear of failure,
todays & tomorrows strung as beads on a necklace
sweat gathers on her brow as she is
drunk on some internet thing again
under a flickering light, a cast of doubt hangs low and lazy
nothing more melancholy than visiting the graveyard of forgotten ideas
what's remaining: give in to
the haze that fills the growing rift between one thought and the next
so often captured by some invisible horror, the spill of nothingness seizes an endless gaze, don't blink, don't think, don't spoil the moment of respite from even more nothing, this nothing of slow slipping, as anxiety overtakes from the knees that will first shatter, strings of drool hang loosely from lips, eyes fix on the depths that is not a surface but a pool that drowns All Good Things. Except, All Good Things is an empty potato sack. Many have fondled it excessively, and many more will follow. Poor sack.
exposed as flayed skin, the first few breaths give life and
new beginnings strike a chord in the throat
while situations begin plotting a next advance -
without fail they fall in a tower of cards -
to smother the new grown shoots, they had not a chance
before being ruined
by spiraling imaginations.
that piece of paper - leave a trail
through the path i've tried clearing , and here
even the ground protests that i've gone
too far. maybe i could convince it
through kisses or would that amount to
manipulation and reveal me to be
a demon? how to avoid banishment
without knowing the word of law?
i am a hunter, after all
forgiveness is possible around about 10 times per ???
through these hours the insides compress & whirl
with the intensity of the navel-hole.
across the street, the beggars laugh at the self-appointed saviors
strung to their martyrdom - those obelisks to fuck the world with.
don't try to worship me more than just a little bit,
drink my sweat while i suffer for the russian dolls of
power. the smallest one wins, then, once established
all of it vanishes into the smoke from the bowl
we've just pulled from
Moments of light / leftovers
I'd be scared to remember
where it was
the drawers were left ajar,
Bellowing tightly into pressurized blood vessels,
There was a spot left on the silent carriage
and I took it without referring to the map,
so alone I could compose the required response
On the surface we are exposed and far too encased
in useless protections,
the friction of 100 condoms
defeat the original purpose
The effort required to grow more tentacles that know
only to grasp and not release -
what is the difference between floating and sinking?
Perhaps peace lies at the bottom of the ocean,
not at its surface
Lost touch with the weight of motions,
I waded through pockets of breath and ease that
slipped through the crevices of rock formations
not even fingers could breach
Once again I wake up on my back
with moon-filled eyes holding
No more memory
I was told to look in corners for the inaccessible but
now it holds my sleeve
it's amazing to look over your shoulder and not be embarrassed by who you used to be. genuine attachment has always been a lingering trail towards a secret question, which never quite offers comfort but only further disorientation. though, that's why we follow the bread crumbs : to meet the cannibalistic witch at the end who we'll outwit and get rich from.
i am not born of ready voices but i am born of many ones. all hollows of unfilled potential dip like pockets in a coat from which flecks of mould covered lint can be fished, just as another reminder that your voice, too, will be drawn out and forgotten. i sound bitter before i'm even 30. now i'm rushing even towards the next word. just that i think we could cover great distances between us.
in my childish mind twister was a sex game.
trauma works its way through the flesh like a thorn. splintering into many children with intents stifled behind snickering laughter. our love grows monstrous like a tumor with teeth. and the lost faces, those hid in the shadows floating over moonlit bodies of water, flitting over you and through me. now i am haunted by your past selves. but when we held each other it was with the intent of never letting go. our separate worlds have caved into one so escape is not quite possible, until the lesson is learned or we tumble through the black hole or both.
i think quite likely the answer is that we're both intrigued by new forms of destruction.
i'm collecting scripts for a rite of passage. mostly oohs and aahs and occasionally a real sentence. Because of you my brain is blown to pieces and i can't string two thoughts together.
i missed you in the allotted time.
simmering in a knee deep resentment, the cauldron of entitlement
is the only meal available here. a cigarette between burnt lips withhold an eruption of atomic force
keep licking my pussy and not thinking about your mother,
in the nighttime my voice drips with the lethal honey
i'd slash the sky with no hesitation believe me
poured a gallon of gasoline on a heap of our clothing
the cinders will draw an uninterpretable future on the low lying ceiling
while ashes rain on our rapt faces, i smear a smudge on your cheek
enclosed in my chest a hammer
enclosed in my womb a spear
nourished by trauma they will exceed our bodies, which are only
stems for possible crimes
but oh we would do so, so lovingly
i caress the cords that plug me to my machine lover
they who alone know the precise pulse of the necessary pleasure
barely suppressed murmurs escape from the wet lipped slaves to desire
at last we have consummated with the desiring machine
here we shall rest, for once
here we shall live/die in peace
circumventing the usual circuits - here's a recursive loophole
to jump through , but don't break your neck (yet)
giddy with hubris we huddle in conspiracy, with great longing
for secrets that stretch between us like a yawning snake
slithering through many ears and back again
with different skin.
an existential tingling: the thrill of a shudder that shoots down a spine when an unknown border is about to be crossed
all that surrounds the neck is a chance to surrender
Fiona Feng is a poet living in Brooklyn, New York, by way of Auckland, New Zealand and Melbourne, Australia. She is completing her PhD at New York University.