Red Petal Light

by goura fotadar

 2Pre-Birth (form womb)

Parlez slue due a deux: Red Petal Light



                      Pumpkin mister

every 2 years I used to die

shedd-ing my sheath for all the demons

to sieve

ghosts the good ones like m’smell

other good ones also like the Good scents

ohr of Life what climb

they pp pop out of m’thighs created to a new life

at times after they’ve been good ghosts for

a while, I ask them if they wanna die ,

you know to start a hole through new life

many seems they say no because they like the

good ghostly life

sometimes they saw yes to being fairies but almost

they don not want to be flesh again

as fairies you get to jitter in the palms of the Lord

among other Spaces

my boots, fairy boots

are from that jitter of fairy seams

they bring to my stay there

laundry rooms are some of

good ghosts favorite places

so are book stacks like those see in


they haunt those places making them smell better

but bitter for evil

then when those bald beings come around

good ghosts marble to work escalating

their bad mental states putting

them on a stereos full blast for

all to see

even the most evil of beings scare away by

good ghosts

good ghosts are everywhere

even if you can’t see them

they exist among of all of US

like the decorations on carpets covering all floors

like the scribbles on marble counters

like the noodles at the bottom of my chili soup

like the toilet paper decorating houses , trees

like the timber lines on your wooden arm rests

like the shoe laces on your shoes

even like the

wire jutting out in loops from electrical


like the billows of that flowing skirt

in the shape of that tree top

or like

the pull of shower our turns

against the vase of your


like the leggings or boxer shorts or

even camisoles

or undershirts

that throb against blocks of

your skin

the straps on camera stands, hand bags, the

whiskers of animals, or the stray hairs

of humans, like pages in newspapers,

or the insides of spines, joints, and

all bones

the cuttings of pencils, the spirals of notebooks, the twirl of leather, the hats of witches, the points of witches feet

but now I die every eight months

watching as memories of past lives

surface to my consciousness

while my body aches, pains & rolls its

death. The process of each my deaths takes

months to complete; my life has to be worked

around my dying hours during this periods of

my deaths.

Each time I die

I die for myself

& for something else that deserves to live.

Each time I die

the surfacing petals in the

water full deep alien sink with its

long alien silver-blue faucets, handles

show me not the future

but the past of why I choose to die

again for this jan, that march, last fall, nine februar-ies ago,

the petals reveal the purpose of

my deaths in a place

where Time does not exist

where the past re-writes to a

more light-shaped instance

and all this, more happens

because I am willing to dial my deaths to Light


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