Carved is a nice word.
A full word, mouth arc’ed
strong and hard.
The sound of Michael Jackson moves the shrieking icy air
rippling scarves and fluttering sheets of hair;
With some space
gaps – x’s and curls, waves, interlocking and intertwining: intertextuality
the white streaks of air in hair
it is clear.
Not a breath of x
floating like wispy hands of a passing moment
thin entrails of what won’t come back —
gasping gulping spluttering desperate gurgles of a lonely
yellow plastic floater.
there’s a sweet sticky accident
my salmon pink bag browned
that October feeling creeps in
when I walk through this corridor;
my knees are cold and fingers
fresh fried crispy tempura
it’s tempura sauce that smokes and
holds the warmth and
“to lock in moisture”
the words hold their shape
but the pages are browning.
the pale nude disappears
under a dry crispy tan
its a weeping, donning of colour
competing spikes of sauce, saucing these pages
a slurp of fake miso
How is your donburi bowl
— this bowl of my culture
culture that deserted me.
I cry out mentally this can’t be happening
they tell me it’s personal charm,
she tells me I should look more brown.