poetry reports no.3 – you never just are

You never just are
vicarious dishevelled hyphenated articulated artifice
You could go on
spewing meaning as though meaning meant something
pretending the moon doesn’t spin
wearing pretensions
a different dress for every mirror
pose for your life
flesh mess undress
rhyme is vulgar, calculated
love got tortured in the playground
sex was too, too something
the you inside me got lost somewhere between
nouns and superegos
plastic holes in poly-metaphors
spoors and bits of fungus on the edge of soul
and money keeps us trying
shenanigans of the acceptable
paragons of perception
notify intention to the servitude of verbs
wrapped in serotonin-flavoured verse
chocolate malady, collocation with parody
but I never just am
to be there’s always…and
like you and like them
wear a different dress
wear a different life
you could go on
pretending the moon doesn’t turn
spewing up meaning as though meaning means something
until it does and it doesn’t but something half way behind in-between.

– bianca laleh


poetry reports no.2 – maple forests

Far beyond the maple forests
Beside the pathways close to home
Denial’s the only landscape
Man was born to roam.

Be it tree or crimson valley
The political or the sky
Today’s the only pleasure-garden
We all long to buy.

Covetous human platitude
Verbs: to breed, consumer greed
We plant the fortresses inside us
From stone and sex to savage need.

Warfare in the uterus
Genome, circuit, heresy
The poison in the witch’s apple
Epicurean fallacy.

We are ritual responses
Tamed interludes of guilt
Libidinous, cruel n covetous
Sadistically built.

Pharmaceutical sedation
Catharsis in the wine
Inside the spinal fluid
The sad and mad combine.

The roads are lined with avenues
Too difficult to walk
And so we suffocate and infiltrate
And to our demons sweetly talk.

And once the bombs become currency
And when the despots bleed us dry
Maybe then the forests will fall
And with them, you and I.

– bianca laleh


poetry reports no.1 – like ashes of gold


And so you cross the threshold of your life

Past the old trees and the silent lake

Past the awkward fires of the lonely real

To the glassy stream where the waters break.

The garden is all overgrown now

Wisteria blurs the burning mirror

Still vases contain the pulp of yesterdays

Beside the broken door sleeps the silver river.

You cry on a porcelain table

You watch your light in the eyes of others

It would take a thousand summers now

To undo all the laughing lovers.

And yet you live on

Accumulating Sundays like ashes of gold

The realms of other countries, like the faces of others

Remind you of why, before you grow old.


– bianca laleh