Kalava in flesh (oldie with Ramon in mind)


fingers clench

(starfish bow to sun)

and come to rest

grid like

upon the contours

which beg

a kiss from

the scalpel – or

the blunt border

of your damning

tongue –

with sufficient valour

i could peel


the façade on

this day or

any other

to weave a

fine garland of

cherry to adorn

your wrist –


 fleshy kalava

to ward you


against the very eyes

i cannot face





  1. I remember this one like yesterday, Morts. Thank you.

  2. I wonder… are there ‘old’ poems? Do they have a shelf life? Some of what I wrote a long while ago is as relative now as it was when I penned it to purge myself of whatever roiled inside me. I’m afraid that probably says something about dogs and vomit again, and my emotional stasis.

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