Three Poems

 

Water well
 

I fell in a water well once/ there were mould chips everywhere/ in a pit/ in water/ it was almost empty/ I yelled & yelled but it started to rain/ & it started to make tiny homes/ in my lungs/ no one came/ & I had tiny asters growing, like mildew/ in green/ growing in my ears & in my throat/ aster faces/ like smiling ant babies/ broken in yellow skin/ taking my voice/ in my throat/ making cities/ making love/ crying for monarchy/ in ant-fashion & where young lovers/ taking shelter under my eyelids/ so that rain drops can afford a single pause/ or maybe more/ pauses/ so that young love has one orgasm of its own doing/ in wetness/ without the help of rain sheds/ vermin in love & working hard on my flesh. I fell in a water well once & I stayed there/ rain didn’t come/ & you stood at the end of the hole/ sunken decay/ you stood & blamed tiny pebbles taking shape on my hair/ you stood there and checked for sex noises/ blaming the wrong foot & putting me in your mouth/ like me, like clumsy.

 

 

 

 

 

Drinking & sleeping in a field when you’re not drunk enough
 

Waking up in tall grass, I regret not dealing with last night’s fists, wrapped in ramen orbs/ fisting/ punching in turns, inside my stomach. That’s when I see your feet, taking a stroll/ in the tall grass/ looking down, that’s what I see & your cashmere pants make me want to pass out. I realize I’m taller than the tall grass/ my torso is like the Bermuda triangle/ authentic, but paid for, barely/ but above wood planks/ on your shoulders/ like I’m on a prayer mat & that’s when I hear your voice/ from under rabbit like/ rapid footsteps/ “monsoon is a lover never returning from a broken war, never waiting for any trees to mature in the sun.”  That makes me so sad & I feel/ other than my stomach/ & I have so much salt/ existing/ in so many fingernails/ existing like spices/ tiny tadpoles swimming under my shirt & I become the plague/ I feel the plague/ I scream & throw tiny frog babies on the tall grass/ for shelter/ for the lack of juvenile showers in this region & I fear as frogs become greener than all the grass & I fear as the sun touches/ as the sun leeches every leafy infant & turns lifeblood to yellow/ crisp & smoking like nothing much happened at all except feelings.

 

 

 

 

 

I love Tokyo
 

I try so hard to be that girl with perfect hair, preferably pink hair a la bangs, that always walks on crowded streets in downtown Tokyo. I mean I’d wear a gas mask gladly, whether I surgically had my smile removed or not. I mean, I love people & I love not talking. I’m a big city girl. Rain is nothing when you have plastic shades that mutter single syllable words on an endless basis, loopy, in monotone & customizable for only $4.99 but in yen currency. 

Plastic shades protect my pink hair. Über grand. 

My big city dreams are not harsh memories from any pray-pray room & I have a profound love for Tokyo. I want to have candy while 100ft pixels smile at me & tell me it’s not too late to be a perfect space alien that loves all & shoes are not as important as species of every kind.

I want to eat sushi at 3am, if I want to & have respect for strangers even when sake makes roadblocks on a childhood of broken toys.

I love Tokyo & I wish I was far enough to catch it from the opposite side of the left ear. I love Tokyo & I wish giving out enough fucks could buy a plane ticket.

 

 

 

 

Nooks Krannie is a girl/person poet from Canada. She's half Persian/half Palestinian. Her words have appeared in Alien Mouth, Wu-Wei Fashion Mag and Uut Poetry. She loves a lot and too much.