A Routine Procedure

By Eve Zennarrow

It’s 4:30 AM
rise like the sun
and shine on your
garden so awake
and viridescent.

Goddess of love, sing.

-music starts-

I’m trying to look my best,
but the clock is killing me.

Every beam of light
is watching my collagen
ripple, ripple, ripple.

I attempt to navigate
the topography
of your mind, and
I always go wrong
in the same place.

You’re making me
change the station,
hit rewind,
push the piano,
preserve the possibility.

After your voice returns
from the speakers,
I catch and caress it
like a branch of
my apple tree in blossom.

Your face is a tragic hue
reflecting off the glass
I keep dropping.

These hospital shifts
are getting the best of me.

My light blue scrubs
are dark with sweat,
a heart-shaped sweat spot
and a lung-shaped one,
and one shaped like a
hypothalamus in fever.

The air is oversaturated.
The life is rough with simplicity.

I always find the most
ordinary things to be
most salient.

When I packed the outline
of your hair
in my memory,
I composed its curves
to blend harmoniously
with my field of vision.

And when I see it,
I slink behind
the wall of sound,
even though I don’t sing.

Oh no, no, I don’t.
Not like that.
Not like you do.

My rhymes are
imbued with distractions.

I grant them
the benefit of free will,
with the engine running
and the doors open.

My poems are more
Raymond Carver
than Sylvia Plath—
short resumes of the
stories I didn’t have
patience to write.

-music concludes-

Abruptly.

You never stick
to the script.

It’s always
’’let’s improvise’’
like we’re wise
enough to find
the solution:

Oral drops of
medicine, dissolved.
Tissues healing,
one pre-filled syringe
at a time.

Long white corridors
plastered with echoes of
"No need to worry.
It's just a routine procedure.
It's just a routine procedure.
It's just a routine..."

Thanks for reading. This publication will always remain free. If you’d like to support my work, consider sharing, subscribing, or ordering my poetry book with a soundtrack, Brave New Chord.

Best,

Eve

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Mixed Signals

By Eve Zennarrow

Last night I fell for
the ultimate thirst trap
when you took your shirt off
and your skin was
dripping with honesty.

My glasses are not smart;
I could not calculate
how many fingers you were holding up,
so I just fixed my hair
and offered you a beer.

“Maybe later,” you said,
as though now was not a good time
and there were more pressing
matters to attend to. To do. To do.

Then you moved to make a move,
took my hand
just as if to check my pulse,
and there it was,
my arteria radialis flirting
with your fingertips,
begging for tachycardia.

“Did you hear the new Guided by Voices
album? It’s pretty good,” I mumbled,

saving my hand from your grip
like I could break free from already
being pronounced dead on arrival.

“What do you want?” you asked.

“Just some space,” I whispered
and moved closer,
waiting for your mouth
to shut me up.

My soul, a handful of pins,
fell at your feet,
desperate to be melted
into something softer and red.

“Can’t you see I really like you?”
I heard while on my way to seek
release from the bondage of your limbs.

“I like you a lot. Do you understand?”

“I’m not fluent in affection,” I joked.

Or maybe I was being honest
for the very first time that night,
carried by the surprise
of things going well for a change.

Thanks for reading. This publication will always remain free. If you’d like to support my work, consider sharing, subscribing, or ordering my poetry book with a soundtrack, Brave New Chord.

Best,
Eve

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No Replacements Found

By Eve Zennarrow

Time, unfold!
I need to unsleep the nights
and undream the dreams
undare the dares
and unscream the screams
till all that is left is
the hell of “what were you thinking?”
and then unthink that too.
Unthink it instantly.
Hide it under the floorboards
and never play with that thought again.

All the words I used:
Stumble!
Fall!
Disspell!
Never to be written over in vain.

I’ll make my own words.
I’ll invent the language.
Break autocorrect
with “no replacements found”.

I’ll wield the syntax
so elaborate and pure,
entangled in the elastic fabric
of space and time,
consciously unconscious,
ancient in its presentness,
sweet on the tongue
and sharp in the mind,
for all to speak and sing and rhyme.

Don’t we all end up like stories anyway?

This is my legacy.
My Glass family.

If it’s the last thing to give,
I’ll give an end to this means.

I’ll set all my records straight.
Alphabetically.
Or not.

I’m not telling a soul,
not going near that hole
that keeps feeding
on my essence.

Where am I going then?

If we keep building new bridges
in the old places,
is there anywhere left to go?

So,
I wanna make one thing straight.
I wanna make all chickens wait.

Do not cross that road!
Ever!

All roads are incongruous
but the ones that come to you.

Thanks for reading. This publication will always remain free. If you’d like to support my work, consider sharing, subscribing, or ordering my poetry book with a soundtrack, Brave New Chord.

Best,

Eve

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That is not to say that you shouldn’t express your opinions in the comments, on the contrary, I would very much like to hear your picks.

Making a top 10 was much more difficult than I thought, so much so that at one point I was even contemplating making a top 20. :)

But I made a decision, and I’ll stick to it. So here we go.

No. 10 Conor Oberst

Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes has a very unique-sounding voice. It breaks and bends and crashes against your eardrums, but it doesn’t give up. It picks you up and takes you along on what you know is going to be a heartbreak, but you don’t care at that point because you can’t stop listening to it.

I’ve seen Bright Eyes live, and he sounded even better (read: sexier) in person.

No. 9 Julian Casablancas

Julian Casablancas’s voice is what I call a crème brûlée voice. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside, it has many layers, each with its own texture and sensation, bitter on the surface, yet sweet through and through.

He also knows exactly how to shape the melodies and harmonies in his songs around the strengths of his voice. And perfect harmony, to me, is very, very sexy.

In the recent Coachella concerts, I think he sang better than ever, and I’m looking forward so much to October, when I’m going to see The Strokes live for the very first time.

No. 8 Kris Kristofferson

Now, I know that Kris Kristofferson is not a rock singer, but he has what you could call a rock and roll personality, and his voice is one of the most intimate, honest-sounding voices I know of. I believe every word he’s saying. And that, to me, is very sexy.

I was lucky enough to see him live about 10 years ago. His voice was frail, but it could still convey all the experience and emotion carried by his music and lyrics. It was a summer day. He performed in front of a castle, and the sun was setting behind him. One of the most memorable days of my life.

My favourite song of his is this one:

No. 7 Tom Verlaine

Tom Verlaine of Television sings with a slight tremble in his voice, like he’s not sure what he wants to say, but he really wants to try. It’s very unpretentious and flawed, which makes it feel sincere and irresistible.

Yes, you read that right. Imperfections are sexy, insecurity can be sexy too, and being genuine about who you are is sexier than any pretend confidence.

I love his solo albums a lot. This song is my favourite:

No. 6 Otis Redding

Of all the singers on my list, I expect this is the one most people will agree on.

To describe the sheer emotion his voice carries through your body and soul, through the earth, stars, universe, and all dimensions and timelines when he sings, “These arms of mine, they are lonely…”, I will not even try. This song should be used as a test in the future to determine whether a subject is human or a replicant (like the Voight-Kampff test in Blade Runner). If you cannot feel it, you’ve got no soul.

The rawness of it, the timelessness of it, the primordialness of it — that is what makes it sexy.

No. 5 Scott Walker

Scott Walker had one of the most distinctive, deep, mighty voices of all time. It transcended the category of being called merely a voice. It was an instrument, a weapon even, a symphony for the end times. When you listen to it, it feels like you are hearing the sound of the universe expanding, or collapsing into itself. It could be both.

He was not afraid to experiment with it either and could achieve almost anything with it.

Trying out new things, playing with concepts, arrangements, and sounds is what makes his voice attractive to me.

No. 4 Fabrizio De André

I suspect there will be many who are not familiar with this singer, and if so, I urge you to listen to him, even if you do not understand Italian. He was an incredible singer and songwriter, very peculiar too. During the first half of his career, he famously refused to perform live.

His voice is so clear-sounding, yet so soft and velvety, deep but flowing like a still river across rocks. And it does help that he sings in Italian. Very sexy indeed.

I will start you off with his cover of Suzanne by Leonard Cohen, but do check out his original work too, if you haven’t already.

No. 3 Mark Sandman

Mark Sandman of Morphine had a voice with a dark undertone, but also a powerful, determined quality that felt like it knew exactly where it was going, even if it wasn’t necessarily a good place. There’s an acceptance in it, a sort of inevitability that you embrace and try to make the best of.

His voice feels present and aware, completely immersed in the moment, and that is what makes it so alluring to me.

No. 2 Jeff Buckley

Jeff Buckley’s voice is a blend of angelic-sounding melodies and rock and roll tension.

It feels divine, yet approachable. So much so that he could be singing about any of our lives.

I realize it’s only my personal impression, but when I listen to him sing, I feel like he’s singing just for me, right now, as if we are the last two people on earth.

To be able to achieve that sort of intimacy through voice alone, in my humble opinion, is very seductive.

No 1. Mark Lanegan

As I said at the beginning, this list was much more difficult to make than I expected. The only thing I was never in any doubt about was who was going to be No. 1.

There’s just no other voice out there, and probably never will be, like that of Mark Lanegan. The depth, the emotion, the sound that makes your blood cells shuffle.

I remember the first time I heard it. It came on the radio. The song was Carry Home, which I knew to be a Jeffrey Lee Pierce (The Gun Club) song, but it wasn’t him singing it. It was this voice that I just couldn’t believe could exist and come from a human being.

I was lucky enough to see him live. It was a relatively small venue, and I remember many people complaining after the concert that it was way too dark and that they couldn’t see anything. It’s true. It was definitely the darkest concert I’ve ever been to, but that was because he was very shy, had stage fright, and wanted it to be that way. To me, that only added to the atmosphere. To hear this voice reverberating against the walls of a small room in almost pitch darkness created the perfect acoustics and a surreal, cinematic feel I will never forget.

I realize now that I could very well describe everyone else’s voice on this list, but I really struggle to find the words to describe Mark’s. I hope that serves as the greatest compliment I could give him.

One thing is certain: his is the sexiest voice I know of, and if you listen to his songs, you’ll understand why that statement is enough without further explanation.

Thanks for reading! I’m looking forward to hearing your top 10s in the comments.

Love,

Eve

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The genesis of the poem: I was watching a YouTube video of Professor Brian Cox explaining the Fermi paradox and found myself fascinated by it. There was a lot of discussion about probabilities, the possibility of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe, and the question of why we have found no evidence of contact with such advanced extraterrestrial civilizations. He also mentioned “400 billion suns,” which felt like a beautiful phrase.

I began to think about probability in another way, about meeting someone who feels inevitable. Someone who makes you feel as if you’ve been waiting for them your whole life, as if every path you’ve ever taken has led you to the exact moment you finally meet. What are the chances of that?

And is love possible, even if it’s not probable?

The song was an obvious choice from the start. I had it in mind the whole time.

The genesis of the poem: I’m rereading Childhood’s End at the moment, so I think it’s woven into every poem in this post to some extent, but this one was directly inspired by it.

The idea of a utopia was mentioned, and it made me wonder what such a place would actually be and look like.

The title of the poem, Efflorescence, is a word I really like, and I thought it fit perfectly because one of its figurative meanings is the peak or culmination of a development, in this case, the development of the human race.

As for the song, it’s one of my favorites. It speaks of a love that is older and more certain than time itself. I thought it would provide the perfect contrast to the poem and raise the question of what we truly need to preserve, and what kind of utopia we want to build.

The genesis of the poem: In this case, I started with Bob Dylan’s A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall, a song I return to often and one that could almost be considered a small philosophical thesis, with its incredible and ever-relevant lyrics.

It was especially the ending—“And I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’, but I’ll know my song well before I start singin’”—that made me grab my pen and immediately write this poem.

So, thank you, Bob, once again for the inspiration. I’m sure it won’t be the last time. ;)

The genesis of the poem: This one was, of course, inspired by the times we live in and the feeling that we’re inevitably heading toward a doomsday scenario of one kind or another.

And if we are, how is it possible that we don’t get to do all the things we wanted to do? In this case, I wrote about a kiss, that final longing for a love that never happened, but it could really be anything.

It’s about humanity as a whole. What if it all ends before we fulfill our true potential, and what a shame that would be.

As for the song choice and the reason behind it, I’ll let you guess and simply post the lyrics here:

Let’s not make it into a big thing
Let’s not get lost in this

I know it is, I know we could
I guess we surely would
Let’s pretend it’s not
It doesn’t mean a thing

Let’s not blow it out of all senses
As though it meant so much
It’s always thought about for weeks

Not everytime your lips meet mine, I think of her
But when her hands reach out, I think of you

The genesis of the poem: Every Cure fan will recognize that I made this poem using song titles from their catalog. To everyone else, it might sound a little silly. :)

I enjoy making poems out of song titles, it’s a lot of fun. I’ve also done it with titles by The Replacements, Hüsker Dü, and The Strokes.

More to come. ;)

The genesis of the poem: This is one of those poems where I think I’m being clever, or funny, or both—but it’s probably neither. ;)

The title came to me first, and then a few lines of the poem followed, much the way many of my lines do: by waking me up in the middle of the night. (I keep a notebook by my pillow to write these things down, and when I wake up in the morning, I never know what I’m going to find there because I don’t remember writing any of it. Sometimes I’m shocked by how good the lines can be, and sometimes I can’t read them at all because of my terrible handwriting and because it was dark when I wrote them.)

Anyway, I’m trying to say that I have no idea what I’m doing, and there is no secret recipe.

The song pairing is there because of the opening lyrics, which go:

‘‘If I could write I'd set all the words free to follow you
Tell you wonder, tell you secrets and solitude’’

Journey to the End of the Fright

By Eve Zennarrow

Was sitting next to Nothing,

and Time was on my side.

Nothing lasted forever.

Time waited for no one.

If I’ve got Nothing to lose,

till the last stop I will dwell.

Was it for All or Nothing?

Only Time will tell.

The genesis of the poem: Some of the recurring themes in my poems are Nothing and Time.

How can there be such a thing as nothing? What is nothing? How do you describe something that isn’t, and doesn’t that contradict the definition itself?

And time... well, I don’t have enough time to torture you with all my musings on that incomprehensible topic.

So I put it into rhyme. Everything seems less absurd when it rhymes.;)

The title is, of course, a play on Ferdinand Céline’s Journey to the End of the Night, and it means that if we ever solved the mysteries of Time and Nothingness, we would no longer be afraid.

The song choice is a new Modest Mouse song that I was listening to when I came up with these couplets, so I felt I owed it to the song to pair it with the poem. It’s a great song, check it out.

Thanks for reading. This publication will always remain free. If you’d like to support my work, consider sharing, subscribing, or ordering my poetry book with a soundtrack, Brave New Chord.

Best,
Eve

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Thanks for reading. This publication will always remain free. If you’d like to support my work, consider sharing, subscribing, or ordering my poetry book with a soundtrack, Brave New Chord.

Best,

Eve

Subscribe now

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What’s in My Bag

By Eve Zennarrow

A pen.

One million dollars
worth of patience.

Half a hope.

Red lipstick.
Missed calls.

A pack of gum.

0.5 L
of water
under the bridge.

A promise, broken.

Dream baby dream.

A notebook.
A notice, unnoticed.

Last year dilemmas.
Last night screams.

Clarity patches,
unused.

Some mighty fine
chips
off my shoulder.

Your glove.

My game
(I don’t have a game).

A portal
to another dimension
(it’s the same dimension—
there is no other reality,
we’re stuck here,
my geeks).

A 5 ml
“smells like regret”
perfume bottle.

A new perspective.
An old pattern.

A feather.
Saved daylight.

The oldest story
in the world.

3 perfectly fine excuses,
123 never minds,
countless don’t worries,

and a roll
of I’m fines—

all in the makeup
compartment.

Your mystery, unsolved.
My misery, foretold.

A spell, unbound.
The prescription, unfilled.

Some nothing
in return.

3 blues, 1 yellow, 2 reds.

A letter of self-worth,
unopened.

A doubt,
spread everywhere.

A guitar
pick-me-up.

Spare pennies
for your thoughts.

A new leaf,
unturned.

Damage, undone.

Grains of salt.

Candy wrappers.

Time warps.

Endless delusion.

A grudge, unheld.

The right words,
unsaid.

Thanks for reading. This publication will always remain free. If you’d like to support my work, consider sharing, subscribing, or ordering my poetry book with a soundtrack, Brave New Chord.

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Eve

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Naked Cannibalism

By Eve Zennarrow

That time when you took
an ordinary evening,
alchemized the things
I didn’t think I remembered,
and made me bare it all.

Never have I been more naked.
Gazing into the soul
disintegrates one’s clothes rapidly.
You know me beyond the stitches
of my silky underwear.

And I let you.
I don’t mind.
Though I’m shy, I’m very shy
except when I’m naked
in front of you.

Take a bite of my knee.
My body is a remedy.
I drag my feet to get
to the point
of no return.

Uterine walls painted
in fresh white —
this will not be
a hostile takeover.

Tenacious teeth sink
just beneath the collarbone,
it’s tickling.
I keep grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Any moment now
you’re going to harvest
my heart, a donor organ.
Every living cell in
my naked body
knows that, and yet
I’m intrepid.

And no, it doesn’t make sense,
like love, time, and
why birds still exist,
but I’m looking
forward to your
guitar hands ripping
me open, taking my heart out
and putting it on ice,
where it will lie
comfortable in the cold
till an Eve-compatible
human takes it in.

You don’t consume hearts.
You have other preferences.
Thank you for that.
Because, honestly, I would think it
a bit too much if you did.

We should scrape off
the coronary arteries, though.
Bradycardia works magic —
a lost Picasso might be hiding underneath.

I plan to survive by turning
my clicking blood into a lo-fi beat.
It’s my trick — it’ll
spark your brain activity
into a kaleidoscope of longing.

CPR can be sexy too.

Just take my breath away.

Sure, everyone stans a bit
of a mystery,
but let me tell you,
being completely naked
is much more kissable.

Next to our drenched
skins, underneath
the beating heart,
the question remains:
which one of us is more naked,
and which one is more hungry?

Thanks for reading. This publication will always remain free. If you’d like to support my work, consider sharing, subscribing, or ordering my poetry book with a soundtrack, Brave New Chord.

Best,
Eve

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Dylan Incantation

By Eve Zennarrow

I think I know what
Bob Dylan meant
when he said
“younger than yesterday.”
For sure, I have been
born old, and I’m
getting younger by the day.

Certainly I care less,
have more frequent naps,
and I just love to play
this game, any game.

You come to love
life more
the less of it remains.

Oh, how shamelessly
young we’ll get,
so young we’ll
never be forgotten.

When you return to me
(and you must),
11/10 I’ll let you
spoil me rotten.

Distant Crush

I had a crush on you
when we were both young.
Holding onto your record
like a steering wheel,
trying to fool my life away
while emoting to your voice.

All words aside,
your illusion goes very far,
repeating until unbridled.
That’s easy in this digitized hell.

The standard distance between us
keeps the dream orbiting,
safe in permanent latency.

Only the release radar can find you.

Edgar Allan Poetess

A poet hides
inside the poem.
All she has
are letters
to build up
the words,
stack them
into walls
to conceal
the poet,
to reveal
the words.

Easter Everywhere

Come back, Jesus.
Jesus, come back!
Everyone is waiting
for you to come back.

We forgot to set the timer.
Wings burned to crisps.
Jesus Christ!
It’s freezing out there.

Come back, please.
Get in the car.
For the love of God,
you’ll catch your death.

Being There

What else could you
make of this life

that was not
your choice

except for
the story

in which
you stayed

young
for as long

as you
were alive.

Ms. Terior Damage

Your laughter
is the only
sound
that could
reassemble me.

(Physics be
damned!)

Thanks for reading. This publication will always remain free. If you’d like to support my work, consider sharing, subscribing, or ordering my poetry book with a soundtrack, Brave New Chord.

Best,
Eve

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Late to the Revolution

By Eve Zennarrow

And where were you
when you first learned
the world is dissolving
into pure static?

Were you also handcuffed
with your own intestines
to the collective guilt
carousel, where every
seat is a life raft?

We were asleep for too long,
kept dreaming in 4D
like all that future needed
was our nightmares.

Didn’t even hear the brutal
music of the shrine we built
out of TikTok trends.

Forgive us, designated screamer.

Is it too late to call to arson?
To call to the revolution
(which indeed will not be televised
but livestreamed instead),
in the grandest, most subversive
way possible?

Can our wounds be lighthouses too,
now that suffering is so
normalized it’s invisible?

Print them on protest signs
and carry them through a
financial district.
See if anybody cares.

No Big Pharma is selling
the red pill to take us to
reality, Alices.
To take us home.

Sit and wait for when the hammer
hits a perfect clang.
Sit and watch with me.

There goes the desperate
arithmetic of human worth.

Didn’t even have a chance
to play chess with Death.

Just wrote a poem
as if it matters.

Now I’m offering you
its corpse,
its lifeless letters,
like a sacred ritual,
like a final verdict.

Last line’s violent whiplash reads:
The loss of loss.

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Title Keeps Changing

By Eve Zennarrow

Whenever I
stumble upon
the word “ruin,”
I read “urin”
instead.
Doctor,
does that make
me sick?

Don’t answer.
Just leave your
stethoscope on.

No access
to this content.
Limited features
only.
Only the lonely.

It’s a lonely
job, stringing
beads of
forever
onto the
Cézanne-blue
yarn of time.

You own the ride,
not the car.

Take the first
exit
on the right.
Take anything.
It’s all placebo
anyway.

I’ve no sense
of direction.
I’ve no sense,
period.

I value peace
more than
attention.

Let’s hide in
the engine room
when they
shoot rockets
into space.

I’m just a
placeholder.
I’ll hold your place
for a second-life
seating.

Let’s have dinner.
I’ll cook
for you.

Whatever it is,
the thing
that happens
when you
want me,
is what I’d do.
Just that.

I’d shift
tectonic plates
for you.
I’d read
terms of service
for you.

God damn it.
I’d even
call you
baby.
I’d hook my
fingers onto
your belt buckle
and say:
Come here,
baby.

What’s with the
sentiment and all?
I like it with
the stars on.

Speak, my love.
This life is
almost upon us,
but the night
is young.

There are
about seven octaves
of piano
notes on my
stockings,
and only three
little buttons
on my dress.

One.
Two.
Three.

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Not Today

By Eve Zennarrow

I’ll write a poem
for you
one day.

A sunny day
when I’m full-on
content
and I’ve got nothing
to do.

I’ll take the pen
and lead it on
to trace my thoughts
smooth and precise,
like I’ve been thinking
of writing about you
for a very, very long time.

It just never seemed
quite the right time,
until now.
I mean then.
Until then
when I start writing
about you.

Which is not now.
This is not it.

This?
Just a draft.
Not even that.

It’s just me playing
with an idea
of you being
in my poem.

Someday…
Don’t know when.
Nevertheless,
it’s bound to happen.

You might not
even notice, but
I’ll lock you in
in my little words,
immortalize your name,
biometrics,
and this feeling
which is not there yet.

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Say Anything

Your words are fingers in my hair,
your fingers travel everywhere
going places,
tracing laces,
placing traces
for your tongue
in cheek, in mouth,
along the collarbone,
sliding along,
slipping down, down
and inside,
as if they could hollow me out
or melt me,
then slurp me up
on an empty stomach,
hatching butterflies,
their wings flapping,
spreading me apart.

Smart Shuffle

What if poems
are meant
to be read
the way albums
are listened to?

What if God
is a DJ and
he falls asleep
while harmonizing
our DNAs?

For how long
could we
delay forever,
my fellow
Frisian outlaws?

Favorite Thing

Let me be your favorite thing,
a sweat-drenched morning
that makes you want to sing.

Let me be your comfort food —
your sweets, salts, or savories.
Acquire a taste for my multitude.

Let me be the water you don’t miss,
a cool drop on the tip of your tongue.
Let me save you every time we kiss.

Let me be your favorite thing.
Bar nothing.

Ouroboros

When I
write down
these words,
do they really
live on,
or do I
kill them
just as they
kill me.

Winter of Our Good Intent

How many times must one
watch the snow falling
not to be in awe
of so much delicate beauty
flying through the air?

I put my hand out,
and every snowflake that
touches my palm dies
instantly for the sake of
the pleasure of its liquid
remains on my bare skin.

Apocalypse, Maybe

I believe these

are the end times.

If they’re not,

Then I’m wrong.

Wednesday is

going down.

Two more days

till the weekend.

Empirically,

we’re moving

towards each other.

Tenerife

I imagine you
imagine me
while palms
speak to the sea
in the language
of a dancing tree.

Dream Hypothesis

I dreamt I put on my cleanest dirty shoes
and rushed through the wet morning dew
to visit a tree that was split by lightning.

Its trunk lay half open, and much to my surprise
there sat all my changes and all my whys,
staring back at me from the moldy bottom.

Throwing shadows on their eyes, my silhouette
made them all shiver as if I were a threat,
shaking off leaves from the remaining branches.

I woke up with a song in my head,
and my sleeves were bloodied and red.
I knew that was from wearing my heart on them.

But what was it that the dream meant?

Christmas Rifle

Shot down
Struck dumb
Knocked over
Set ablaze
Blown away
Pushed around
Taken aback
Torn apart
Wiped out
Bared down
Set aside
Bowled over
Gave up
Sprung on
Moved along.

I Don’t Want

to get old.
If I get old,
I’m afraid
I’d die.

And if I die,
I’ll never
get a chance
to try

to justify
your smile
on the day
that I die.

The Art of Letting Snow

Snow is falling.
Who cares?
Everybody cares.
Nobody cares.
In the woods
squatting bears.
Put your shoes on,
everyone sees where you’re going.
Watch your step though,
because of the bears and stuff.
Put your gloves on,
you’ll be caught red-handed.
Don’t let them see your hands,
cool hand Luke.
When you’re running away
don’t run through the woods,
don’t wake the bears.
You can’t play musical chairs
with the squatting bears.

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I’d Rather Have a Cat in Front of Me

By Eve Zennarrow

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wished for a room
filled with assorted books and records,
it’s walls lined with carefully organized shelves.
Ideally, a little place in the corner
for a coffee machine too,
and a comfy lounge chair
where I could spend my days dreaming.

I would sit in my chair, feet up,
headphones on, book in one hand,
coffee and biscuits
conveniently on the table,
just within reach of the other hand,
and my proverbial self existing there,
taking all the time in the world,
questioning everything — even Gods.
Well. Especially Gods.

Suddenly, an ant starts climbing
up the table, looking at me.
His hairy legs hurry — up and up and up.
All three pairs of them.
What a cute little fellow.
Impossible not to empathize with him.

We get in tune. I feel the splinters of
the wooden surface he climbs on.
His round, soft tummy suits me.
Willingly, I can now wiggle my antennae
and even clench my mandibles!
This is so cool!
My eyes shift to the sides of my head.
Vission blurs.
I struggle to make out my other self,
the one sitting in the chair.

Stay there. Don’t move. Listen to your music.
I need to ascend
to the top,
to where the biscuits await.
Nothing else matters.

Wait a minute.
You need to what?
Oh no. No, no, no.
Who do you think you are?
Gregor Samsa?
How dare you.
I will not let you transform me.
I like me.

With my human legs
I attempt to stand,
but my big head hits the ceiling,
breaks through the rooftop,
and goes up and up and up
among clouds
and birds and planes (no explains)
till it’s too far, too high and
I can’t see.I can’t hear.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I can’t…

Eardrums catch the waves of a record skipping.
Daylight floods my eyes. I wake in a sweat.
My cat sits on my stomach.
Relieved, I lift my hand to pet her.
She looks at me, unamused,
and in a husky Tom Waits voice she says:

“I’ve been kidnapped by the crows.
Oh baby, time is running out.
You need to pay the ransom.”

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Love in a Time of Breakup

By Eve Zennarrow

Not now, please,
the world’s about to end, again.
This can’t be it.
I must prepare,
leave the instructions
for my time-traveling self.

Let me think.
How do I make this
a happy ending
if it ends before it’s over?

I’m using my breath to
keep moving forward.
Curiosity is my oxygen.

I want to know: to what end
is this end?
Not to mine.

While everything must end,
my stubbornness is eternal.

I’m a wish upon your brow.
You used to make me come true.
You used to make me come.
You used to make me.
Now you’re unmaking me.

Not so long ago,
you shivered
when I sang to you.
Called me a PJ Harvey
to your Nick Cave.
Didn’t they break up too?

Now you’re standing
on the doorstep,
holding your bag
and a big grudge against me.

A cyanometer can’t measure
the blue in my heart.

I can’t think of anything to say.
You’re leaving,
and I’m staying.

Isn’t clarification just
the most beautiful thing?

Please, don’t let me keep you.

I’ll keep myself busy
by folding neatly
all my insecurities
under the pillow
for when you text
that you miss me.

Our story
will finish in this room,
by the yellow bedside table
with the alarm clock on top,
and a thread of ends
that can’t be tied.

It’s okay.
It’s just a minor inconvenience
to avoid a major disaster.

All romances go as far as they can.
We did our best,
and our best did us.

Just one thing:
forgive me,
if I may.

I must insist
that you give me back my love.

You didn’t think you could
actually keep it, you clepto?!

Hand it over.
I want to put it back in me.

My vacant essence
is wide open,
like the door you’ll
leave behind you.

All done now.
We rewind to the beginning.
Tears unfall.

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Road Tripping

By Eve Zennarrow

On the road,
sitting in the passenger seat,
looking through the window,
I notice every little nothing
along the way.

Bare trees look like blood vessels
floating in a cloud of fog.
Roadkill has been carefully
placed on the side of the road.
Small icicles are flying off
truck rooftops
(one just narrowly avoided
our car’s windshield — phiw!).

A rider on a motorcycle
is stretching his leg.
A bumper sticker on the caravan
says: Eat my snow.
Funny.

I can never sleep
while I’m traveling.
Too much to see,
to hear, to read,
to invent.

It’s uncanny how steadily
the world unravels around you,
while you’re constricted
to your seat.

There’s congestion
on the German motorway,
and I can see on the
display of the car next to ours
that they are listening to
The Cranberries’ Dreams.
That brings a smile to my face,
and I start to sing
over our own car music:

“Oh, my life
is changing every day
in every possible way…”

I think of Chungking Express,
where, so fittingly,
Faye Wong sings
a cover version of this song,
and the scene plays
in my head where she
breaks into the apartment
of the guy she likes
and redecorates
without him noticing.

I wonder if the people
in the car beside ours
have seen the movie.
I almost want to roll down
the window and ask them.

I don’t.
Of course I don’t.

I just shut my eyes
for a second,
my smile still lingering.

Any moment now
the car will start moving again,
and something new will happen.

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Brave New Chord (my book of poetry with a soundtrack)

[She looks like Eva Marie Saint in "On the Waterfront"
As she reads Simone de Beauvoir in her American circumstance]

I Woke Up in Paris

By Eve Zennarrow

I woke up in Paris.
No, it wasn’t a dream,
although I’ve dreamt of Paris
many times — this time
I was really there.

My Airbnb is a loft,
and it features a copy
of Georgia O’Keeffe’s
Bella Donna on one of its walls.
(Hi, Carol.)

It’s cloudy and it rains
sporadically. A cold wind is
pinching my cheeks.
Thank you. I’m still awake.

Weather doesn’t really
matter here.
There’s something about
the city.
It swallows you whole
and down the oesophagus,
like down the rabbit hole,
transports you into a dimension
where art is all
you sense.

It’s some kind of
higher state of being,
for there is so much to see,
to experience, to touch
and smell and taste.
There’s ample to be
inspired by.

Walking — no, floating —
these streets, I’m thinking:
“After this, I’m going to write
my best work yet!”

Then I look at Mona Lisa,
and she seems so small, lonely,
and fragile — exposed.
Happy, sad, mischievous,
eternal, wise, beautiful,
cautious, reckless, free,
not free, passionate, calm.

She’s every woman that ever was,
and she’s telling it all,
yet it’s impossible to know
if she’ll reveal anything.

Just sitting there, in a multitude
of layers, transitioning from
shadow to light
in front of
a terraforming landscape
of depth and time.

And then I think:
“I’ll never write again.
How could I?
Je ne pourrais pas.
I’m not nearly good enough.

It’s clear. It’s as transparent
as the veil of silk she
covers her dress with.”

She smiles because she doesn’t
believe me? Because she
approves? She understands?
She disagrees? She…
wants to seduce me, or torture me?

It’s beside the point.
I agree with it all, or
I dismiss it into the nothingness
we all came from.

It’s her call.

Back at my Airbnb,
I take out of my backpack
a small postcard
of the painting
I got at the souvenir shop,
and I place it against the vase
with dried flowers in front of me.

I eat fresh bread I bought,
garnish it with some cheese
and olives,
and it’s the best meal
I’ve ever had.

Don’t know if it’s that simple,
but I’m alive,
and I’m happy.

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Happiness Is a State of Mine

By Eve Zennarrow

If anything good ever happens to me again,
I won’t let it be too much.
I won’t let it blind me all at once
or seduce me too quickly,
only to vanish without a trace.

I will let happiness sneak in, crawling,
kindling my soul incrementally,
softly infiltrating my whole being
until it settles as a lasting state
within me.

I will nourish it with small reserves of joy
that ripen regularly,
bit by bit,
until it can no longer exist without them.

It will no longer want to leave,
once it instinctively, quietly
becomes a part of me.

Brave New Chord (my book of poetry with a soundtrack)

Sanguine

By Eve Zennarrow

Your words darted away
through the quiet optimism
of a Sunday afternoon,
whirling crumbs and cobwebs
into spirals.
Then they slipped swiftly
through the door
so I wouldn’t notice
the honey mustard and onion flavor
they left on your tongue
when I recrossed my legs.
Your fingers picked through my locks,
composing our fortune,
then stopped and found
the line of my neck,
putting my face up to yours,
allowing my bottom lip
to take the fingerprint of your thumb.
Phil Ochs’ “Changes” began.
You said it’s such a beautiful song
and that we need to start
kissing before it’s over.
A wave of joy saturated
my flesh, for I knew:
this song is four-and-a-half minutes long.
Four and a half long minutes
filled with your kisses.
“We better hurry,” I said.
And we did, we did, we did.

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