And so it goes...

A new blog. This entry may very well be the last. 

Eyes split, ripe fruit

of dream; ground echoes

bruises

 

under thunderless clouds; sun

rising, white head of

maggot

 

gorged on the rot of promises –

 

If god

insists on my presence

I take my leave –

 

  

Poem to be featured in The Bug Book, an anthology to be published by Poets Wear Prada in Winter 2009. 

Poem by Colette Inez, featured in the anthology:

Witness to a Meadow in Virginia

Cows kneel in fields
fireflies have abandoned.
Soon another year of flickering,
a comet's shower of flowers in the grass.

I was born in another country,
Leopold, the cruel king.
I embroidered butterflies
on handkerchiefs

sold by the African missions.
A child, I said papillon,
and fluttered my wrists,
imagining shiny coins in boxes

shipped to the Congo
where children dreamed
severed hands of their ancestors
took wing on the path.

Today I bow to the swallowtails,
spangled fritillaries and sulphurs
as if they were royalty.

Poems forthcoming in Softblow, October edition.

From the editorial:

'T.S. Eliot once said that "it must be the small and obscure papers and reviews, those which are hardly read by anyone but their own contributors, that will keep critical thought alive and encourage authors of individual talent." More than just another literary site featuring excellent work by such talents, SOFTBLOW also hopes to better focus the eye back on the poem. This journal does not pretend to exist for a general reading audience. It is for unswerving lovers of poetry who also appreciate how far poetry has come over time.'

Previous contributors include Teng Qian Xi, whose debut poetry collection They Hear Salt Crystallising (FirstFruits, 2009) will be published later this year, Jee Leong Koh and Mani Rao. 
 

 

            for J

 

 

We got high on friction and spit; we have travelled

beyond anything tragic –

 

*

 

Craving the honesty of

a hard-on, we smear lies over

each thing we love and claim to love

to eat it.

 

Between the body and the spirit: an empty mattress

inviting –

 

Call it incest, call it

something else, something respectable,

a term even we

can accept – No one needs to know

in the end the reason

he came: if you wish to

 

hold me, as he pushes against

the unlatched gate of your desire, to enter –

 

The sounds men make

when fucking are

just sounds: do not think you  need to

 

forgive, if I choose to remain

silent in your arms

 

for deep feelings are

neon haloes

flashing, flashing over Christ’s

head, once and once and gone –

 

for even in the dark

we know

 

cock rings are the more lasting –