dicht.es / dense.words

Isabel Gomes-Leps, published in German as well as English / Poetry, Prose and sometimes photography.

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i just heard my plant suck in water and then it moved so loudly the pot shifted.

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There is truly nothing good about war. Although we would have never met. War functions as some kind of glitch in our reality, something that should have never happened. At the end, there is something we can make of it; we are now forever familiar with the voices of each other and the sounds of an unfamiliar country.

Things said

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peppermint

pulp june night   to resurrect pine cone seeds predominately found in the  shift from wood to coastline; nasolabial fold follicles of that backroom lilac breathe me. photosynthesis moves green subtropic temples; endangered plants the sill so full of them! so full moss inches, mint blooms.

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txt

my daughter closed the txt file with my latest writing. after seeing the dialogue pop up, she closes without saving. the whole cache was deleted with it. i want to bury myself in a hole. 

and i remember the words that someone once said, “if you can not remember what you even wrote, it was not worth it anyway”. 

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plain

the raw genius of a caterpillar flitting sentiments or sediments some residue on the left hemisphere of your brain

grits of that fig seeds beadings between fingers

mars is forgotten between high gras; prairie on earth.

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One year off tumblr and everything is the same. It is like a time capsule of regretted love and very beautiful packaged agony.

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masculine

accomplice,

a dictionary asleep,

the noses never meet bitter almond pralines all while a cat steps over the paperweight epithetical postcards so heavy now a ship carries them into yawning tides

and on someday i wear a skirt that takes me seen along female horizons.

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interim

familiarity is where i my you comes from thickened the skin around nails and to dream of sleep gaping breadth.

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hunger he

do not look in castles worn banister additional installment the made in china curtain and the smell: oak of aulic

slowly the dog is nodding   where no one will find him bound to a mirror polished chestnut rolls and resounds in a grounds suture prospect for foliage elapses IN between ready sleek branches

the fuck!the - hungry the hunger is knitting mesopotamian’s fall.

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hunger der

schau nicht im schloß nach abgenutztem treppengeländer nachträglich installiert der made in china gardine und dem geruch: eiche vom hof,

langsam döst der hund bis dahin wo ihn keiner mehr angebunden vorfindet zum spiegel polierte kastanie rollt und hallt in einer bodennaht ausschau nach laub vergeht [IN]zwischen glatten ästen –

the fuck!the- hunger der hunger ist mesopotame untergänge stricken.

[Original in German]

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I folded my poetry into a star.  Unreadable / 2015

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on the train and cows

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painted music

what if the throttle that is leaving your brain upholds the AI my daughter painted

music

soul is gone placed on a chip only a treatise; so called conscience

will be a forensic copy of sic.

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Fuck I Lost You - A sugar-cookie

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art can not save the world, it can only change it.

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mi - a précis

a record player and a telescope to listen to the thoughts leaving; throttle of the cotton napkin - smelt   digesting layer of stars of home folded into an origami frog and feel of native is stuck in folds mi - a précis, phonating repeat.

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I just stumbled upon your blog and I'm enraptured in your words. Beautiful stuff, please keep writing...

Thank You for your words. Do not have any to give back.

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see

it is a circle in a circle in a circle of a drought in a crack on cement-hard grounds i can not lick away the past of the things that i have become too vulnerable to and oh my oh my oh my the things i see i can not see.