Sit On A Tree, Free

sit on a tree, free

Tagging the streets with trembling hands, afraid he’ll break the lace.

Digging in the wind with trembling hands, knowing he’ll capture my pace.

Flirting with bridges with trembling hands, laughing

he’ll remember this face.

My hands stopped trembling 

it’s a chase

I whispered

the agony of the race.

© Margaux Emmanuel 

rancorous quietude

Soft is the day that towers down upon us. Silken air skims our epidermis, that leather that will soon be numbing and trenchant.

We contemplate the oppression of the clouds. 

Serenely. 

These delicate pillows staying afloat in the azure of the ocean tactlessly shroud the sun, acclimated with lingering in lonesomeness. This combustion, deeply misprized, enumerates every second of our trivialities. 

The mellow hours pass, knifelike, and I succumb to these moments of dancing dolorousness. Warblers carol macabre purities, perched on the tree of estranged formalism, indoctrinated fruit dangling off its branches. 

My tempestuous heart bleeds. 

Tranquilly. 

The daggers of transgression transpierce my unconscious. 

Deliberately. 

Pernicious is the day that towers down upon us. 

© Margaux Emmanuel 

Mister Copenhagen

Coarse cheeks have been plowed with the frail frost of the night. 

Arteries are meek

no noise abrades your ears

no breath breaks the common air of gloom

no seagulls inhale the salty perfumes 

and then it dies.

The New Port awakens, still rusty from sleep

the lucent colors of the olden abodes flood into your eyes

the sovereign sunlight dares to creep

he is alive.

An olden viking pride streams in the blood of the city’s gorge

ebbs onto the delicate Little Mermaid’s feet

and the cobblestones begin to bustle

the herd of the North Shop have to be rustled

impatient ties of the center hustle.

His mind’s roadways are sweltering 

utterly overpowering 

swirling around drunkenly 

in the carousels of Tivoli

and the blazing wind comes in 

whipping his bones.

Yet

The Langebro

is forging its shadow

loyal to its vow to the languorous sun

too indolent to rise after a never-ending summer.

His eyes become heavy

He asks his brother Stockholm 

if his veins were again empty.

The city gradually plummets into a slumber

but the Odin nestled in the muscles of Copenhagen

continues to wander.

© Margaux Emmanuel 

Messy souls interrupt the silence of the extant, wound the ordinary, and comfort the bizarre.

theinscrutableescapee

© Margaux Emmanuel l

howls of the lost lunatic

the ecstasy of forgotten time

of the void impalpable by feeling 

of this cavity in my heart

this disaccord of light

that bleeds through the dark 

that touches the depths of these caved in walls

that touches despair’s budding shadow

soaked in this arid guilt

while we’re pushed in the gulf of hysteria

searching for the words

to our own lost poetry. 

© Margaux Emmanuel 

je me noie, je m’étouffe

Je me suis enterrée hier

je ne sais pas pourquoi

je voulais que les ombres s’allongent sur la terre

répondent aux questions

dans leurs nuages sournois 

les plaies dénudent ma peau

le cercueil me caresse

me dit qu’il est trop tôt 

de noyer l’allégresse 

des chapitres brumeux 

racontent l’innocence 

dansent avec l’inconscience 

d’une simple apparence 

dans ce cercueil, je meurs

en douceur 

en peur

je m’ennuie

© Margaux Emmanuel