Poetry for Moths

El Tío John Entre canales que guardan un secreto trazado, y jardines en los cuales el tiempo se resigna, camina un hombre por las calles a pasos marcados, Este hombre es un tío, el John de Argentina. Riega flores y amistades con un gesto sagrado, como quien sabe que el alma en lo simple germina; hasta los pollos lo miran con respeto callado, porque en él han encontrado una armonía divina. Ha cruzado un laberinto de complejo entramado, con un estoicismo que ilumina cada senda serpentina; y aunque su pelo palidezca, jamás ha claudicado, su fuerza un pacto antiguo con la vida que le destina. Brindemos hoy por su historia, su viaje desatado, por sus días sin prisa, su vida peregrina; que su nombre siga vivo en un eco prolongado, Brinden por este tío, el John de Argentina. Flo McQuibban 06.03.2026

Thair wis  a wee mart shop Back home in auld Fife, Wi Pittenweem haddock Filleted by knife. The quine thair sold  fishcakes Ye'd nae trade for lyfe, At that one wee mart place In Pittenweem, Fife.  Her mam spak a jargon That warmed the toon's hert. Nae  faustian bargain, Could keep thaim apairt. Whan brave lads symphonic Wid shoot their puir shot, She'd swear thaim  platonic , All Fifers, all Scots. Whan I think on ma lyfe, Noo weathered wi age, I think back on auld Fife Pre- spongiform days, Tae the Pittenween quine.  See, it took her quick,  That so awfu disease  That had made her sick. For in just a few years  Misfortune  and fate Brocht her mam tae tears, I Disambiguate . She wis Fife-beloved So factually, That I write of her oft, Retroactively, That wee Pittenweem quine In the auld mart shop, From back home in Fife's green,  Wha sellt me haddock. Prompt: write a Hai-poem using the words Platonic; Fishcakes; Retroactively; Spong...

You light me up, Fire and flame, As your mouth curves To put me to shame. Who are you, That you can see me so? Where were you, That your innermost you I'll never know? A smile that lays Reservations to waste, The sweet embrace, Of your laughter, made to taste. Howling from across the gleam, Fellowship grows. A punk-teen-love, dream team That only Plato knows.

The Consumerist Machine Has a singular goal: Fill your soul with greed And swallow you whole. 〰️•〰️•〰️ The Consumerist Machine Seeks to divide and conquer, Hatch imaginary needs To provoke your hunger. 〰️•〰️•〰️ How much longer? Will the Consumerist Machine Devour your dreams Suffocating you, selfishly. 〰️•〰️•〰️ The Consumerist Machine Begs you: "Forget Falasteen!" As it tapes your mouth shut, And locks you out or up. 〰️•〰️•〰️ But it's not too late to turn the tide, Pick up your principles, And desert the pit In which you hide. 〰️•〰️•〰️ Resistance is not only fire and flame, But the choice of choosing truth and pain. When the next generation seeks to blame, How will it treat your name? 〰️•〰️•〰️•〰️

The River bleeds your blood,  And the Sea sings your name,  While the coloniser's bombs flood Your earth with new graves. Clouds of smoke plague the land You hold dear, as voices smothered Reach out a hand for their dying Mother, Hoping She is near. Beaches, mosques, and steeples Are ruined without end, As the world watches a people It helped slaughter and condemn, Run out of water and children. Death by rubble await many more. As the oppressor tries to bury their crimes in fire, Even the stillness of demise cannot shelter a liar from their lies, When they call it a "war, not a genocide."  Yet annihilations and evacuations, Cannot displace the heart, Nor those who refused to abandon stations from the start. Fill the sky with phosphor and paper planes, they dare you, Drench their splintered homes in acid rains. They won't spare you from the truth:  Freedom will come, and mountains will move. For even after centuries of atrocities unspoken, The spirit of Palestine cann...

Like the ebb and flow  Depend on one another, We come and we go, A release without smother. For when dreary days dance on, We seek out the sun Only to find it in each other. Darkness clouds our judgement,  In times of sorrow, Emptiness, grief; barren As the Great Barrier Reef.  Yet  There's always tomorrow, We come and we go. Just as we come and we go, Our doubts will wash over, Frothed and swivelled, To and fro. I bet  Even the cleverest raven, Sometimes feels like a crow.

Red lips, wine-tinted at the tips, Release words un-distilled and clement, Warm and true, full sentences that curl up to hearts, Anchoring friendships, solid, like cement. Honest and open, I'd stand by your mind in the deluge, Fight the war of your emotional refuge. I'd find your well and put a rope in. Don't you ever repent, When they say "too much",  You've only barely arrived, And I can't get enough.

Flesh-thought wreckages, gore on fine Paper. A first prize masochist, they say'd give it all up. Curse your eyes, your mouth, your mind, that I'd 180 for a touch. Anything to brush up, against you in time. It's too late to mend the cracks, To un-wrinkle the path and iron the creases, We lost our way when we bent our backs, For adventures that left us sleepless.  It's better this way, they say. But I burn and I ache, At the thought of what I've given you, And what you gave. Now everything's uncomfortable, And what used to be sacred, Is repressed, because we've faked it. Now we're uncomfortable. But I still love you after all.

Torchlight my burrowed brain, Wrap your film around my feelings. Wreck me from inside with pain stoppers  To punch-plug the bleeding. I recumb, Sandpaper eyes and body of uranium; I taste like salt, like iron, like metal, Call me a cauterised corpse, a burnt petal. Still, you don't run. How come? They'd think us a carnage, you know, a bloodbath If they heard it, The way we dissect our bruises uncensored, Our thoughts decomposed, an absurd fit. Glued gum, You the apprehensive and the taut, Me the sensitive and the numb. I guess I love you, call me stupid, call me otherworldly,  Call me dumb. I'll tiptoe the perimeters of your space always, I'll call, No matter if you need it, Shut the doors, build a wall. Give me love and I'll water it, absorb it, upkeep it. Love me, and I'll breathe it.

My fingers are slums, Where squalid thoughts go to wander, Materialise, and be torn asunder, Pitied like crumbs. Massacred, mangled, burst: Now ashtrays are coffins, And oxygen has toxins,  The party bus into the New Year, a hearse.  My fingers are parched, Pleading for good times to pillage My insides empty, a love spillage, The world, starched. They all agree though, come through, This year will be better. But all I can think of is that I'll never forget her, First year without you.

Scorch my heart, fiery fiend, Break the bones of my bad back to lay them bare. Latch on to my eyes like tarp, like sludge, like muck, Quarantined and devoid of air. Me, the sitting duck. Me, the unprepared, the crushed. Velvet blood core. And you, no heart, no bones, no eyes, no breath, Are cherished dust, a memory. Take me to shore, And cut my cold hair. Rid me of this harrowing treachery, My senses beat to death. Dry me like a flower, strip me naked, Take everything you see fit, Even my mind, I'll let you break it. Ruin me, see if I care. Anything to hear your voice again, Burn me to the ground, if you dare. Fallen too far, knees shattered and bent,  Now I only beg you to help it all make sense,  Pick me up withered, a flower so dry, As I ask for one last sound,  One last cry with my dear old friend, Just one world paradox, once before the end.

Here you are again, your relentless Hello breathing down my neck. You again, the very definition of Other. It is not so much that I resent your reoccurrence, That I resent your reappearance; I find comfort in my seething, Warmth in hating you, solace in your homemade wreck. Here you are again, flaunting your wrapped finger still, It's you with your pointy whispers wrung out in saccharine silks, Sickly and alluring. And you call out to me, otherworldly, never-ending: "That is she." I find comfort in my seething you see, As you set me apart, designate me as the Other woman to your entourage, Set me ablaze with your own red letter, Revel in your choking mirage. At least I can say confidently now: my sorrow not in vain, The irony clear, you the Other woman, you the heart polluter, You the inconsiderate and parched bane. It must be December that brings you about this way, Fills my tired mind w...

Grabbed a black box, To fix your Saturday morning fuck up. But I douse my cells in acid to cleanse,  Look up and ache; and I think of her. * * *  It looks like her, tugging at my hairline.  It feels like her, creeping back under my nails. It sounds like you, drowning me in gaslight. * * *  Get her out of there, Out of my hair. Rid me of the residue. * * *   I grabbed a small black box, no two. Half off, just like my love was. I tried to fix it, now I'm back Here drinking to the day * * * You left me with a crack.

25 mai, année lunaire 804 (AL804) Arrivé à Yellentide par bateau-S, enfin. Un incident avec une pieuvre-titan a retardé la connexion à Pandorelle, donc j’ai dû prendre la 8 au lieu. On aurait pensé que le Grand Maître aurait trouvé une solution, mais non. Mais la caffe est bonne, j’en ai bu deux pour accompagner les pillules. Signé, Héléno 02 juin, AL804 Yellentide ne change jamais, et en même temps change toujours. La ville est intouchable comme les autres dans le quartier, toutes contraintes à la Loi de l’Ésthétique du Légalia . Les habitants, par contre, ou les passants, plutôt (des habitants, il n’y en a pas bien-sûr), sont en flux incéssant. Reste à voir si je retrouverai Sisophène. Elle a déjà eu sa Journée du Processus . Elle me manque. Héléno 08 septembre, AL806 Encore sur un bateau-S avec un délai majeur. Rien n’a changé en deux ans. Sisophène avait les cheveux rouges au fait, je viens de m’en rappeler. Tant pis, elle est morte. On l’a condamné, ...

“Are you traumatised, my dear?” asked a stern face from above. “What?” I blurted. I had been kept behind a closed curtain in a white room the size of a small walk-in closet for over twenty minutes with an overweight Scottish woman as my sole companion. As the smell of spices and bleach slowly invaded my nostrils, I had been given the strict instructions to relax, partially undress, and lay still. Indian folk music was playing on the radio. “You are shivering!” she noted, touching my shaking legs.   “Yes, well I mean, I am naked after all,” I said nonchalantly. “Listen. Is this traumatising for you?” she repeated, with forced motherly tenderness. “…No.” I replied, with scepticism and caution. The face before me creased in agonising disbelief, raising its left eyebrow. Oh…my god , I thought. Does saying I am not traumatised make me sound …traumatised ? Scenes of Simon Cowell pressing his buzzer and uttering the words “It’s a no from me” flashed before...