The senses are yours to compose a world of beauty with the might of your mind.

Contents

. repose . recoil . rigour . resplendence

Recoil

to retract

to quickly refute

to perform disapproval

HIT IT

Deadly drops disdained

kneecaps to floorboard

at green and blue inducing speedsbleeding out in salt-baths

with sweat from the eyes

in an attempt to extract his

egotistic pride

all fours out the pourshow the hell

does anyone dare ever ask why

when we know — how cowardly

and morally insufficient

an expectation from a date

to repay with bodies

there’s no romance in

booming an object

not even barely scraping bottom

but claiming an assumption

no one has any thing to loseis a point where some time

life will find

no more reasons or excuse

to respond with love

to the birth of new life

instead of the ignorance

of strife.

THE ALL ONE TRAP

Figuring out the I or me is not thewas to became or am

some kind of cyclic game

of gnostic misanthropy

so if I’m not the me and you’re no the you

then who

do we own our responsibility to? some kind of rhetoric paving imaginary streets

where garbage blows about freelyin the something of not a me

that carries the delight of songbird flightthat doesn’t exist unless in reference to a tree

how many more metaphors can we

weave our way into each others skinas those past, present, and futuresoils are comprised in being

not this or that but everything all at once and yet not at all and always never and foreveruntil what a trip

we’d better get back home

and avoid the solipsism of self help

and short circuited soils

diluting our souls.

TRAPPED

Droplet dotted windshield view widewith faint murmur of a creepinganticipatory sighI just drivemy foot put on lockdowninhaling an earthy lung charring steamweaving through lanes ofintermittent illuminationI can see from within

I’m cloudedand in the darkI can see the volume at which a frustrated mind shriekspick onea route

that can’t be taken

not yet how could we

move into that way just yet

without being

allows a bit of space

a horn and light and yet

we the entrapped

don’t get anywhere in life.

TIMES UP

A folding chair creaksand tucked away are memoriesof dreams too feared for existence they bulge at the seamsas lightly lined irises gleamunder a hidden din of

just enough sleepto keep up

while wearing down

through a disco of directional dissonancelevelled by a demeanour andbland ho-hum experiencesamplified in well made nauseation

a numb

deafeningly silent enough

to succumb

to try on

being in love

with a fightround a ring

a dance knocking toe taps

at the very least

to every beat, a chanceof the vague possibility

to rationalise a stancepushed that way tight on a dare

to tango I bet we all thought

it was easier than that

to focus on a comfort

in structure

to sequester a cryfor the triumphant

bet obliged

the rounds only last so far past sun down

there’s just a bit of time now

before the alarm commandsup and at the whatever

you said yes to yesterday.

PLATONIC FORMS IN THE WIND

The sort of Sunday afternoon napping comfort blewin gusts and rolling blue-hued grey moisture puffstipped my nose into such windsclosed lidded I stood, grappling for groundingthe directions ficklemaking a mess of tangled strandsof lengthening browncan't quite touch what may be signsso holding up a licked fingerdoesn't seem so sanitary anywaythere must be another way to read this wind

in such a situation I’ve allowed myself to get nestled inrequesting a detailed explanation

unbindingembracing

change without a leashwafting through an undermining society

I see no benefit in the dominance hierarchies since there’s an unknown experience to set off into

where known issues are addressed

and small sacrifices of focus are made

to benefit the rest

I’m always amazed how much can magnetically be done

by grazing the hand that which extremity touchesthat felt the beat of violence at the hand of ignoranceand a silence

vibrating from internal forms in our landscapes

commonly characterised by smoothly roundedkindergarten cut out shapes.

SPRING COLOURED SKIN

The winding bike path I taketransforms my sight momentarily into the image of a mountainous Colorado viewan escape from an SUV landscapescreaming so loud, get the hell, outa here!in that momentarily hostile naturedrawn from a wind whipping my cheek skininto buttery softnessdeep within

I long for someone to feellater or soon this experienceinstead of some technological messagesjarring in screens

meandering thoughtsI really scream now to put to an end toscreeching – halt - stop!time mobile palm device interface

has no place

in my ever expanding sense of space soaking in the vitamin D pumping intravenously

sitting in trafficI’m sipping on that which feeds this bodyand replenishes this mind

now is no better time

than yesterday’s so hesitate shall we not

to drop the misery

and let transformation

begin.

NO APOLOGIES

Worshipping practicality, preferring straight linesbuilds muscle easily loves to loathe Charles Bukowskipacks two months stay in a baglibido like a cat in heat

with the persistence of a nun on a missionbelieves men better take some responsibilityand just stop just talking aboutfiguring your s**t out — is this what we permit as a man?

an adolescent in wrinkling skin? no way does such banality fly with meno apologies, or patience

for sorries without change anymore.

These re but a few simple things

yet there’s always more

than whatever perfume and soft skin

applies towards appreciating

domestic aptitudesanyone with heart

has a soft spot for puppies

and babies

and if not a vase of flowersmaybe just a petal or two.

WEATHERMAN

The drop their heads backgaping-pointed fingers to the skytaking sharp breaths inrelieved in sighs of wondermentis that nature's display of soft cumulous clouds floating delicate and strongbut deeper than mind paid to surface awethere more if you’ll go further willing to graspat the inquisition to attaina thorough understandingof what creates the show — as my grief for superficial state of affairs subsidesI’m able to see quite plainly nowhow sweet a man who grows an affinity forlife bonds with nature throughmeteorological enlightenmenta deeper kind of love than say

mere infatuation or lust

within each of us, is a weatherman in waittaking interests in how clouds know

which way to goor the purity of droplets as they kiss our cheeksbinding our histories

to the story of our lands

we lay beneath the books

some hands

have yet to write.

STANCEThe orange sun did set in my dreams played last nightand I just missed the moment for the perfect photographedframe-able picturesque sightsettling for the video type memoryI keep rewinding, fast forwardingthe play in my head knowingto make wear on the imagetil they jump, fuzz, and fadethis afternoon I decided to make new motion pictureswatching the cross-alley door banging in the windamidst the dead still is all around us nowcharacterised and brought to lifeby half sorts of smiles mustered isolated we turned to our sides

side so no one sees my criesand upon paths I make doubtblocks hindering my strides

in making all sorts of connections and plansthey were so beautiful, yespeaceful and realistically attainablelending themselves to hopenot only selfishly but in offering humanity a handin the pursuit of each sun rise

a day comes no companion can

comfort the uncomfortable stance

of knowing we are each our own.

FLIP FLOP TANK TOPS painted toes slide to and froskimming over TV screen fuzz blur pavementmy denim pants actually fitthey don't dare drag on this grey dayquietly illuminated by eyesabundantly rested cheap coffee tastes so wellwhen appetite for chewing is nilif only I had a sprinkle of cinnamon spicemy pockets would feel richby a soil stabbed with miracle growmy green has made way for blooms of orange, red, and yellow.

KEEP

My heart hollowed,been scooped out by you.all for a meaning,that can never be oneto understand.conceived with hope,devised of a plan,once believed rightfully true,unjustified by an emptiness-followed by a longing for a shared embrace.time to fill the space.pour in me truth.please remove-theweight of doubt lingering.when potentialfor somethingso unbelievably tangible,dangles in view.still within reach.keep.

SAID AND DONE ANOTHER

So my guys’ friend comes by from time to time

respectable and dearclaims he be allergic to time

so I demand

he "just stick it to me, what on earth you mean?”as inquirer seems to fit my skinbetter than the grommeted black bandI forgot was left on my wrist

he looks sideways

wondering and shakes his mop

I see not so much the accessories are unworthy of trusting

but if he claims he’s not drinking

as a means of peaceable living

his lies are vies for my eyes

I just let fly and offer the taste of ideas born oftick-tock around the clocks fastingto revel in the vibrancy of pulse beats formedby letting our organs breath

so I have still not his answer to his detestation for time

and I witness him in my sober

hidden behind our shaggy hairdos

and I turn my back

to the lie for the truth my guy is sweating boozedripping like he knows he’s in luckknowing better

than to hold onto those pants

I wore a dress

as we would dance

and phone lies won’t work

when there’s a real dance

with our chances.

© Mari Amman. All Rights Reserved.

Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL III.

First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.

The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.

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