Author: Pisceanesque

"It's not from within that I emerge; it's by emerging, that I am truly within."


sometimes your
have people attached to them

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 29 March 2021


my wordless heart
mistaken origami art
naked – stark – pristine – unfolded
chapters lost before they start
my heaving chest its leaving ark
escaping from the boundless dark
a sea of inkless tears to mark
the day you drowned my
paper heart 

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 21 February 2021


So many words,
fuelled by everything,
filled with nothing.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 31 January 2021


Our love,
a time bomb.
Short wick.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 19 December, 2020


There is nothing,
short of absence

flocked as well in chasm as expanse;
deplete of all and nourishment
in trance with echoed dance,
farmed as wealth for plunder
wears a cold and faceless frieze;

as lingering and as formless,
it, bequeathed in whole disease
whilst bounded by detachment
mirrored, stale
and faint,
and seized

as broken hearts denied repair
to leak, unprized, uneased

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 19 December 2020


(mid 16th century: from Latin, ‘wreath, crown’)

This world will descend with us all wearing crowns,
our fear made of chain mail, ensuring we drown –
this royal, rich cluster-fuck the claws of a hound
pandemically torn; endemically bound.

One planet, one people, an abstracted art –
our hope stripped in layers while the illest depart.
Socialised distance the end where we start:
with sanitised hands we are bonded apart.

And yet, it is loneliness more than disease
that will whisper goodbye as we land on our knees,
extinction unmasking the death it will seize
as we slip well away with perpetual ease.

But we cannot forget how to smile in defiance;
we must find a cure and resume an alliance.
Our infinite strength is historically timeless:
let us fearlessly roar in the face of this virus!

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 21 March 2020


As a rule,
I have learnt to fraternise with dreams for gain,
profiting not from indiscretion,
but in the karma sought within such mindful revenge.

Were it possible
to simply matchbox my raw emotion,
the kindling its casket contained
may encourage wild arson –

but perhaps it is less of a burden
to fuck you while I sleep
than thank you for stoking my fire
while clothed in its flame.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 7 February, 2020


She was not brave:
she was necessary.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 27 October 2019


She recovered her heart with
yesterday sighs
and only her tomorrow smile
knew enough about courage
to forgive the delay.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 10 October, 2019


Here comes the addiction again, its
whispering lips disguised as passion, the
touch of its hidden hand tap-running
way beyond the weave of my skin
and I
soaked to my core, allow it to wed me:
these buckling knees and paper mâché vows
impressing the addict impaled inside, and
while it listens
eyes necking everything in raised pulse
it rolls them back with slack-jawed possession
and I move aside
host to a beaten heart that will not commit to stopping
– a puppeteer’d shell in this limbless silence –
running far without a single step
both of us
gambling with a satisfied purr that only I
once combative
now frail
know as loneliness

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 9 October, 2019


I have no tolerance for hope. Hope survives
on leftovers and unwilling loss: a soiled casket of
emptiness for every six feet of paragraph
it wades behind. Hope stuffs itself between the words
and the meaning, loudly camouflaged by
gambling and cigarettes, declining to altercate but
lathered by a demand to be seen. It shuns you,
but needs you desirable, a voyeurist: a
lap dancing ghost to keep it current.
            Hope is a pimp
and you whore yourself to keep it primed,
shedding your skin like a puree of missing passports,
onion tears soaking sensibility after raw
sensibility, riding hope faster than your hips can keep up,
because, and after all,
there has to be a better place than this.
Time is just an expanse to harness,
a mount for crossing –
and you must wager everything,
from soul to sex
to grind it hard to a halt.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 19 November, 2018


They all write of love.

But true adventure lay between a
frozen boundary of
stony words; between a synchronism
of dishonest friendship
and the cowardice of being alone.

Poetry is animal without tongue or limb
and it bellows wildly in dormant pursuit.
It flowers only to write of
hand grenades that fall like alphabet stars;
pollen, like acid rain.
It flourishes in drama of silent depth
as wound commits to scar.

Sometimes it touches
and perhaps we might call it rape
but all it ever seeks is our forgiveness,
an atoned pardon for not arriving
– for not stampeding us –
any sooner than it had.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 8 May, 2018


I might have confessed

were it not for the blanket
of second chances,
assumption oiled at the hinges
by forgiveness –

a permanence arriving
to shuttle me beyond
the gates of my first

Suddenly, it’s stage fright
that trumpets me an usher –

it bleeds me
a carpet call of thin red lines
and I tamper with the packaging
of cause and effect –

two quality seals,
the loose embodiment
of error and apology

I might have confessed

were it not for the bible’d cancer
of my second coming

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 29 April 2018


Am I brave enough yet to emerge;
to escape the regret;
to dismantle;
to demolish the surge of this
plundering ache;
to curb and to conquer
and famish the quaking
– this suffering silence –
this violent breath taking.
Am I whole enough yet
to prohibit the shaking,
snaking my flesh with
its mandible gaping –
and I,
an invertebrate
like it’s tilling a field in my pause.

– I AM –

I am soul enough, rousing to roar
– but will this awareness
alone be the door to implore me to forfeit,
renounce, and withdraw from
this former attachment
to lapse while I stall,
while in fragments
I catch myself falling
I submit to this whiplash of
“worth less” and war,

mauling through self–harm,
rejecting my core.

Perhaps in my rapture my courage will capture
the thrill of detaching,
forgiving myself for my lack of evolving;
for dressing tornadoes I’d wade in,
while anchored by nought but
the grief I was holding
by swallowing pain
– almost framing each frame –
as the slower the memories,
the faster they came and the longer they’d last
it would tighten their hold,
and the closer they’d weave they would blindfold
and frighten,
and once I was frozen and broken,
– eyes widened –
they’d leave…

Perhaps fate will gift me a shift
from my history,
to bask in my victory
and mask my past injuries
and race to new mysteries
and questions,
and answers, un–asked
but desperately fancied
as I take on this task
to have finally been caste;
to have grown from my hate;
to have flown past a place
where my purpose was faceless
to race to a moment I have hungered to taste
in a time I had dreamt of
instead of erased –

to a piece of the peace I deserve,
and a truth to embrace.

Will the aching forsake me at last
and the healing re–take me – its journey as vast
as the path it will trace
to re–shape me,
I ask,
and will it profess to regress to
a time I could heave less,
bereaved less, and
survive long enough to emerge
at my boldest and best?

The answer is “yes”.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 13 April 2018


When it burns, the inferno
turns you into something not
quite finished and not yet
transformed and only
know your limits while the world
sits by and waits for its
‘pièce de résistance’ to rise from the
rebirth it gave you
like it had handed you first prize
when you had not yet picked
the numbers.

Your monster wears its party fangs
without asking first:
the current climate
calling for partial nudity and
cluster fucks with strangers who
drop their unweaned smiles
like crumbs inside the dirty of your lap –
and on and on it goes,
to martyr
to fall upon
deafened eyes and those blind
of learning.

And it burns, this puppetry,
in crowds of pantomime,
for the melting of your heart;
its wax upon the crutches of
you have chiselled from your chest
to bury alone. It burns, and
you know only how to self-combust and welcome Karma
for you fear it will one day leave without you –
and where would you run to
without those karmic ties to reign you in
or pull you back
or weave themselves inside to commandeer you.

Beneath this sweltering burst of oppression,
soiled and seeded, and
planted by the ankles in concrete shoes;
beneath the heatwave that rides you like you need an awakening;
beneath you – the hotplate – the hot knife – the hotel
embellished with red-black highways,
and roads of bloodshot weariness
raining from your eyes,

you, in party fangs
and crawling upon dusty knees
all over,
in and out
– Karma’s glove –
for anywhere else
but the squalor of this doomed acceptance.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 09 March, 2018


I am a glass half full of
I feel seems to swallow me
instead of I
is not a smooth rush
down my open
the words that hurt me again
in ways you will never
what you say before
you open your lips to
through your eyes like I am
trying to do in my
comes in thin spaces
between what you say and what I
know why it needs to be so complicated
when all I feel is
fills me like a glass half full of
rides you easier than I ever could.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 13 December, 2017


I expect too much of time
in the little I have left.
I am a dinosaur,
and it,
the pummelling to come.

I wait for its whoosh to confound me;
the bending skywards of my neck;
the brevity of my innocence;
my un-vocal surrender.

A wounded animal,
contorted by such clarity,
by my lack of ease
as I awkwardly expire.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 29 November, 2017


There we were
for a moment
awash with candy’d rainbows that shed
spun-sugar silk to dress this call for change.
It’s a pity
this entree tasted like a sundae of fever and fable.
Treasurers, we, to nought, now,
but wingless poetry; of letters, silent
and honest
we’d declined to share.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


Show up
with pieces of my name at your chest
and I will promise you
that all its letters
in any order
will write you through this fire
melting both our hearts

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


in the language of hope
scorching its way with splintered paddles
down to the roughs of my hungry feet
and teaching me
of steadfastness and self-love
through the blanketing challenges of escape

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


I fight rough
– healing you –
to turn truth
into your new home
Sharp edges
for the smoky silence
of a rear-view mirror

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


I breathe you in
– surrender –
and my lungs fill with
flavours unknown
but for the soft sounds
I make of them
as they arrive

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


I scoop this body from its mind, and
on the cusp of extinction, it wails:
insane, lost, romanticising surrender.
Perhaps, my arm the mast, this tissue the flag,
perhaps at last I will tire of this terrorism
and sign on again
for a new amendment of love.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 October, 2017


By and by,
the past, it passes –
date-raping purpose
through peering glasses:
pregnant pauses never lasting.

Every vanished thrill
restarting futures
on a windowed sill,
shadows casting mimes
in stills
as long will live the passion,
– hungry –
fuelling moments full to brim.

Just as quick, another morning
dawning – time to pass
and kill; murder,
just another constant,
one more loss on
sudden whim as
whereupon man solders on
to play the night another song
for day by day we carry on,
to pass another past

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 October, 2017


I am the starved sanctuary for unformed words and
by I pass the feverish wind that recipes its way
beyond my teeth to mix another spoon of
awkward with a sifted pound of nervous laughter,
folding and kneading a cavernous desire
that piecemeals its softened voice
into any semblance of oral freedom
my selfishly shy lips will dare untangle.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 October, 2017


My poetry lay hungry,
over-indulged on missing vocals
and absent sound,
under-fed from swallowed emotion
and buried tears –
throat-lumping in the name of opinion
better kept to shadowy under-jaws
and burbling stomach acid;
cocooning noisily with butterflies
of rage whose lead-heavy wings
and straight jacket veins
pin themselves to freedom
with only my dry throat
a means to escape.

My poetry lay hungry
while I feed on its promise
to blanket my attempt
to make it known.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 October, 2017


I tire of love and terrorism; the
way my broken heart lay claim
to territory unknown before; the
way the softness of these blankets fall
like bombs in your wake; the
way the hunger for calm strikes and
starves and
feeds in rations; the
way this post trauma stands guard
at closed eyes and
changes sentry as I awaken;
the way it loops itself about my mushroom cloud, and
belts its breath on my cheek. I
tire of scratching at hope like
hope is a trivial blush at another chance. I
grow weary of this kamikaze daze,
my eyes, the fluorescence of every wound un-bared. I
ignite from within, limp and lost
from so much exploding without.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 July, 2017


O, the involuntariness of life.
I did not ask for any of this. I
was not sinned from my mother’s womb to strife
between such small moments of bliss.

I cannot canter, all horsely and proud,
made to garden the fruits of my labour.
My soul was born to yearn loud, not
sink to another’s cold favour.

God willing, by the end of my days
I will leave achievements like letters –
small mercies for the suffering of babes
to learn how to generation better.

Peace comes at this fair price –
not without effort, or calling; but
through silent lessons, taught to them twice –
Elders way showing before falling.

And so, to these children of time:
mistakes beget paths, straight and narrow.
I was birthed as Creator of mine
to lead such a flight like a sparrow.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 10 July, 2017


Your lies are like Origami –
they all start from the same
but take many

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2017


Should you
perhaps blindly
show an interest
errantly battering storm within
may cease its embryonic dance
and betroth itself
in your capture

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2017