Sasha Ioffine

'To women and effeminate men,
To Mary, Jessie, Hannah, Jen
To girls just born - and dying gals
To women who call us, men, 'pals'
...

A girl with peachy-white complexion
With sense of style and direction
A youthful face, two clever eyes
Be not too simple - not too wise
...

To be and/or not to be.
That is the question
...

To twist around is a crime
It will distract the follicles
From being so sublime
The scissors dance around my curls
...

I try to find the tricky balance
Between two pictures on a card
One has a girl, kissing to no one
The other, birds flying away
...

Behind a wall of moving windows,
I wave from the leaving train
Trying hard to reassure you,
Bring a smile to your pain
...

You asked for smoke,
But kindled fire
And ashes rolled beneath your feet.
But if you lived without desire
...

It sinks like foam beneath my feet
Before my very toes
The hills of dandruff cover peat
And claw through barren roads
...

When my mom came
Inside my room
I was under a blanket
And water smooth on window panes
...

The ice around
My mouth hath shattered
Acrylic slime
From lips hath splattered
...

Canaries land atop a church
And sing an airy tune
As if on cue the bell does chime
And they fly to the moon
...

As the creek wherein I lay began to overflow
I looked upon the waterfall that poured like milky cream
And let the tender milkmaid fill the shallow, naked Earth
And pour onto the river, a quiet, gentle stream
...

I screamed when everyone was quiet
I laughed when everyone had cried
I slept after I had awoken
And lived right after I had died
...

The last train walked away
Like a deaf prostitute
...

Rows of epitaphs casting shadows on the graves
I, singing quietly, feel the tranquility in May
I walk along the pathways reminiscing memories
I stumble on an emerald meadow- among it many trees.
...

The tundra of its metal sheet
Spreads farther than you think
Just look away from your own eyes
Lean both hands on your sink
...

The wax spit on her veiny hands
The wick swayed in the air
The mantra hung
As did her face
...

A pianist sat on his stool
The throng had hushed away
And when the violin had strummed
His fingers hovered in the air
...

Her eyes divine in solitude
Painted on Autumn skin
Through opaque sky look desperately
And much to their chagrin
...

I am the apple on the branch
After a heavy rain
And probably, the only fruit
To bear the cool dew's pain
...