I’m in Miami, bitch.

I fucking Miami. A lot. I think I might want to adopt America. I shall write a post about it soon (there is just so much to say!) but in the mean-time, here are a few poems (nothing like travelling to get those inspiration buds flowing)…

Forty-three: Transit Translation

So many Germans in Germany.
Frankfurt generates little else but
hotdogs,
fucking hotdogs
(and a distant uncle).
I see a merlot-haired woman
tattooed with regret
(though she doesn’t seem to at all).

On the escalators I am
fascinated by a cop’s
pale-as-skin eyebrows.
Cop. I think, Nazi.
Coming down I see
A man with
really
big
ears.
(And a chef’s uniform but
all I see is
ears.)
I think, Nazi.
I picture everyone in SS uniform.
Such a shame.
I remind myself that there is
more
to Germany
(though I won’t know
more
until I am
more
than just in transit).

Wat dorf uo hin?
The answer is the same
even though
the translation
isn’t.
I’m just curious.

Forty-four: Float

Mottled clouds whisper through the sky like Bo Beep’s sheep.
It makes me
stop. All I can feel is a smile.
It’s nice up here,
floating in this blue vacuum.
The world below is too small to matter.
Or just invisible.
I know I am moving but
everything’s still.
It’s like death.
I think I could float like this forever.


Forty-five: My Body is Perfect No More

My body is perfect no more.
There is no polished monochrome mannequin skin.
The colours flow into each other: olive to rose to grape.

There is no sleek paper touch.
The skin creases inappropriately
tight,
as if my body is pulling into itself.

This turtle skin glows pink,
glaring of experience.
I am a beige blanket of skin,
all patched up with rouge.

It’s like I am a puzzle,
and pieces are missing.

I know I am alive now.
I can read the story
in hieroglyphs
on my skin.

My body is perfect no more.
It’s better.

(Another one I am eager to develop.)

Forty-six: 187 HBL

I saw you gliding into my periphery
in your sleek silver machine.
You drew me to you and I
started drifting over but I
smacked
against the car window.

I was up.
You were down.
You, in your Miami convertible,
Me, in my rented cage of a Lincoln.
I wanted to roll it all down,
lean across the stretching American roads
and touch your skin.

You had a flower in  your hair,
a gentle white petaled detail to endear me to you.
If I am honest, this is when you became a poem.

You didn’t turn to look at me once,
but as you sped off into the neon sunset,
I caught your name.
I know who you are 187 HBL.
(Except I don’t.)

I want to smoke my rare cigarette (the smoking is rare not the actual apparel), brush my teeth and sleep; the kids are going to wake me up at seven again. Oh man, is this what it’s like to be a mother? ‘Argh’ comes to mind.

Goodnight; I hope your view is as beautiful as mine.
(That would be the moon, the skyscrapers, the bay and all the shimmering lights in between.)

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

3 thoughts on “I’m in Miami, bitch.”

    1. I know but I didn’t mean it to be. I did pause before I put it up but then I thought, poetic license, and went on with it. I wasn’t thinking like, ARGH NAZI, MAKE YOURSELF INCONSPICUOUS… it was more like- I can TOTALLY imagine what they would look like dressed up as Nazis.

      I think they are all lacking but I have too much catching up to do on my 365 project to be a pedant. Oh no, am the type of person who’s standards drop when the pressure goes up?!

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