fish, don’t die

i fed the fish swimming through
the blurriness of the morning viewed
through a window obscured by
my sighs

the rain you bring in this room always
half-chokes my hearing
to a muffled vacuum

where do you go?

i forgot how the shore’s breath
tastes like, how
the sweetness of music pounding, swaying
the milks of my heart
felt like

when i lean my face against the glass
i see the back of your silhouette walking
a murky path to
only you can know where—

did you just shrug?

i tap your shoulder
only the glass squeaks

where is your hand
when i dance through sakura trees, piano keys
tickling the falling petals, daffodils
floating around me

i’ve never seen spring bloom in
our room after all, so i
learned to love the rain

have you ever smelled
what they’ve all smelled?—
the vase of roses
i always wear

you must be made of dream material
i am just pink-painted porcelain—
skipping beneath
the feet of you and your fellow giants
playing chess, or
watching tv

Follow me on instagram: @nele_ponce
I have some poetry in there.


Love is too big for just you

I guzzle from the trophy cup of all happy-reached
men at the music festival of Life
          Of and For All Those That Truly Lived,
revel in the glassy, minty sting of waters hushing,
whispering as they undulate
          under my sunset-glossed shoulders,
fly alongside whirling winds under the cotton
gradients of pink clouds and hazy
          blue sunlight at the dawn of rain,
dry myself of earth’s fresh mud with flower petal
towels, amidst the sweet howling silence
          of the dewy-green sea,
and munch gushing watermelons
under arid orange skies to thank the great
          All—the all that lives now and simply is.

Though I too, mourn with those who seek in greed
to the All of only loving goodness, with saluted
          arms in desperate flight from mortality,
wipe my tears for those that have walked
the rich and generous race of life
          and for those that had rushed it blindfolded too,
rage with those whom the truly powerless All
has wronged—for those who have been robbed of the riches
          of happiness and ultimate virtue,
lust with the simple dogs the material pleasures
of nonsense love in gilded disguise
          as such ugly emptiness glimmers with divinity too,
and even cry out at the rock concerts of the devils
in collective ravenous celebration of Death
          Of and For Those Too Afraid to Have Lived.

I am the conscious god who binges
to the music radio of the All; and here
          I’ve found you—a great artist to listen to.