the only door that does not creak

how does it feel when yours is the only door that does not creak. privately she speaks to me in sunlit secrecy. i asked my god to take a walk through my prefrontal cortex. the core of my existence whispered hymns of muslim magma. melting on my botus brain, beliefs of pollination. neurology is nectar-filled so feed me food for thought. where do you go when daylight closes clouds for corporations. when mosques are masks for ignorance and religion’s disintegrating. hold my hand and pray because today don’t mean tomorrow.

eight-layer honey cake recipe

gently pour three cups of flour into deep silver basin of hope. stir lightly after cracking two ambient eggs with their yolks screaming sunlight. with the finger of your choice add two dollops of honey. this will remind you that burnt cakes still waft sweetness from their crusts. remember that one burn that blistered bouts of insomnia and the names you tried to forget. build your cake from the bottom up. your first layer will collect crumbs the way you’ve crossed paths with fragmented love. so used to light leaking in from wholes in god’s shoes, by the fourth layer you’ll probably think yourself undeserving of this cake. continue to coat the fifth with whipped cream and whispers of your favorite words. remember the night poetry let you swim past midnight and the moon got the sun a little too tipsy on cheap wine and red velvet. remember lipstick stains in empty bedsheets still ready to warm more bodies. remember rhythm when dance was a game you played in your sleep. prepare more cherries for the fall. sixth layer will be sour. it will taste like fresh piano morning intimacy in a sea of drowned music sheets. symphonies only your fingers know by heart will keep your head above the water. let them carry you home. and when you feel like nightmare and loneliness decided to move your limbs for you, remember that there are still. two more layers and endless poems in between.

passionfruit (when you need it)

yayoi kusama

how important it is. to realize. that you. are birdmagic.

part and parcel of the divine. you are whole and complete in your most raw. natural. and awakened state of being. to be grounded by the prospect of rising. of growing. to be patient while your inner moonlight traverses galaxies. to believe. in hands as baskets. warm bodies like lovebone. you. are your own muse and wild criatura. you are the infinite. the strong light tsunami pineapple prism. an electromagnetic spectrum of intercellular kisses. existing in this very body. at this very second.

how much artlove. your blood is constantly. naturally. beautifully. pumping.

-kahirati (ft. art by yayoi kusama)