by Dina Lobo

Sleep upon my breast

Sleep upon my breast

and rest

hold my waist

hands on the landscape of my hips

for you can land your flags on them

and settle on its curves for momentary minutes

kiss the bones that hold

the weight of my fertility

lay your fingers on my forehead

and kiss the lines of my aches

and I’ll listen to them rest

in your lip’s care.

and make your hand the basket

for which my restlessness can rest

and unfold

unto me,

but only me.


Sleep upon my breast

and remember your mother’s

and how replaceable she is in comparison to me

let me heal myself in healing you

allow me without permission to soothe my femininity

and stroke the back of your eyes

and manipulate your skin


in soft whispers of silence

I invite you in warmth

and on the same note of my secure insecurity

I say in the salt I own, the one I produce

I say

sleep upon my breast

ease me into rays of admirable pastel-like light

and remind me of my ancestral youth.




The infamy within

Testosterone and the sound behind Adam’s Larynx

The pauses swim quietly before it erupts

And then ripples of him touch my skin before my ear

the fertile blood pumps through my most feminine fields

my fields swelling and my eyes shut for the sake of imagination

Taught to hide behind the cloaks of patriarchy

The infamy of this scene


I watch the heat and myself within my eyes spread down to my thighs

The metamorphosis of girl to an empowered raw Eve

upwards again and downwards, the nauseating pleasure

and upwards again parallel to the full lips I cut my teeth with

And my fields yell on the sounds of the heroine of this all

and this heat fogs my reputation for centuries

The infamy of this scene


I only have the tips of my nails to hold these feminine scars

The same tips that do good before they reach for the fields again

And the rush behind my ribs shake me out of death and instead

into I go with fields unclothed, proud and vulnerable

Touch without touch

smirks tucked beneath my rights, but

they still said

The infamy of this scene


your loss

Your loss. You lost the one person in this world of billions that sold her soul in seconds. Your loss. I was here, I was ready, I signed the forms blindly. Your loss. You, with your insecurities and ill venom of fears that I, and I only, had the hands to heal. Your loss. For even the permanency of truth traced your name on my flesh. Your loss. A thousand times your loss. An immense loss with no exaggerations. Fear this loss, you. Fear it more than your gutless self and cowardly conceited self. An eternal loss for you, I swear. But, all the gain for me. I will be at my worst and I’m worse now. Then, I get myself back, well not back because it will not be just an evolvement for the better, but the best. I was always the best. Later and beginning now, my freedom will exist without your name. Your loss will not end this, my gain will.

I love you now, but not forever.



Moonlight Sonata and sleep

and my appetite for bread and wine begins

I’ll cry so happy

so happy to be living in gold

I want the coins in gold and not silver

my bones are not even heavy

they are weak, feeling cheap

they need the paper and the bank’s investment

I’m cold, Ludwig

your notes are not working to revive me

they are even beginning to irritate me

but continue playing for me Ludwig


you classical stud

as I leave my work and myself for the noise you make.

Moonlight Sonata

and if only I could rest and sleep upon each note

but you are irritating me Ludwig.

Even Beethoven is disappointed in me.

Words by Dina Lobo




Melancholy knows me

I don’t enjoy being in that dance

I am just deprecating flesh

that cheer

and a pan around the room showcasing both lips and teeth

and they laugh

it makes me sad when I watch the laughter

In defence, I wrap myself with my hands

I find comfort in this hopelessness

I found an honest friend in melancholy

it reads my soul to me when I’m tired

when I can’t reach out to a mirror

to self identify

because I don’t want to

don’t touch this home

this web the spiders helped me create

lovely creatures they are, strong these women are

I trust them, their truth

like the charming sadness that keeps me stable

it holds me

how nice – this melancholy knows me

it doesn’t push nor judge me

it doesn’t guide nor talk to me

it allows me freedom

expecting nothing from me

it doesn’t sexualize me

Melanie, Melancholy, Mel-low


failure and demotivation I could never befriend

an enemy stripping me of my rights

I am not in a drunken state for a stamp of approval

or acceptance of my failure to reproduce

the lack of motion my hands make

the lack of gifts I provide god with

I know my mistakes better than those demons that

anchor me to a depth I have yet to come from

but at least I know

that like him, you lie

I trust

I lose

I again, yes I gain

the mortal, they board the ship of death, this I know

hate spews and my lungs and my body attacks all cells

the nerves of my poor heart in shock

and happy blood lasts only for seconds

before happiness reminds me of my enemies


this self-guidance, this everyday pulling

from my ankles

to my nose

and I have to lift my heavy self

I am reaching the point where soon I’ll be out of breath

and sometimes I am breathing breathless air

and I think

wish I could dream the good and bad

and not move a finger.


Blue Cherry

Don’t leave

blue cherry

fruit of all that ignites my nirvana and my death

my sweet, sad boy


exotic legend of my heart

even if the dust creates a film of images on my skin of all that is lost

I’m willing to fix my eyes on a final view and peel its curtains from there

but give me the fabric to begin my tale

where threads and intricate designs of my mind are made out of skin

skin of those fearless kings who disclose honesty in gold

give me a point to start at

I don’t mind running around the traces shapes make like a mad one

but give me documents that harshly state what I hold no control of

find your vulnerable lion and hand them to me, heart first, claws later

ice of fruit you are

the sun knows not your name

swans of my mind demand their feminine right

the feathers of my heart flock every possibility

stripping all that makes me lighter

leaving no dent in your path

my feather

the angel you defeated and did not pick up on your right

soft whispers of things I refuse to comprehend but dive in

blue cherry

never am I yours or you mine

don’t create films of what I am in your lonely studio

coldest of theatre you inhale

and your lion rests

I am not in want of wishes built on expectations

I wish to only sip from the juices of the cherry

a taste that will decide my destiny, a destiny I am ready for and unprepared

blues of blues and the fruits of fruits

seeds holding answers I am unable to find

blue cherries draped in decorations I can’t touch

the elite you shunned me from

brushing off all I am in front of your blue flames

my favourite mood and you knew that

master of a darker shade

Violent Grey

Generic pop

a song of cheer amongst the sad, tired melancholy of this day

that feeling of labor felt in the pit of my stomach

where the guts reject this vulgar, contaminated voice

forging itself unto me

violating me

each letter spelling out the pedophilia of lies

abducting my right to reject

to run barefoot on the corners of these streets

the taxi driver has a story

a sad pore disclosed and concealed by this journey he hates

roads I want, roads I need

sick bastard of a life

drilling empty, idiotic chants of sequins and smiles built on sex

commercial, material

all the noise inspiring an itch

no, no inspiration at all

but rather the irritating taste of one using nails as he scrapes a wound

a sort of annoying gesture the day’s disease brings

I hate it here, I hate me here.

then I love myself and feel my ego rise

oh but the rain and its clouds and all its grey angst refuse my offer

so I watch him drive

this man I am never to rest on and comprehend

this grey smothering me and I don’t want it

kissing my cheeks and neck and I’m crying

I ask for a delicate touch on my shoulders I love

and he holds them in restrain and its mean

 it won’t listen

it wants what it wants and takes what it wants

and I’m soon to fade into the ditch of my dreams

where I reside all alone

where I weave lies and I have no gifts to give

in holes I live

my eyelashes trying to sing

my song

my rise my fall on the sidelines as the best walk among me laying out the streets

I am unable to run on

on my own.

Oh my heart, oh my flesh

let my soul carry you free

let me leave

but you salivate and your lips turn me away

Words by Dina Lobo


In you I die

in every fresh wave of opportunity and the new-ness the ocean’s mist brings

with all its strength and form

nature’s force stained

made and bound to never grow

a barricade to end all the spasms it carries

one after another it hits the edge of a rock.

The rocks ingrained on soil and born before you and I

and all that I know

the rocks built to do nothing but stand still and effortlessly resist all you want

fences built from the decisions I throw.

They shamelessly wait for a teenage-like burst of desire and naive wishes of change

a wave carrying all the rage, doubt, pain, wonder, and even hope covered in smirks

with all its child-like, adolescent curiosity

ready and exhilarated

leaping forward, chest first

like ice cubes suddenly felt on a warm vulnerable bare chest

a quick abrupt sound of breath, a sort of mix of fear and excitement

that human scare full of evidence

the adrenaline of the unknown turned into foam

waves coming from time stretched amongst oceans

and waters touched by smaller ponds and lakes

and stories of fingers and golden legs

and the pores that hairs come from with details that overwhelm

I’m all these microscopic, minuscule gifts that bring us back to a world of storytelling and humans and their whining

stories of obstacles I have outgrown out of boredom.

When a wave fails to reach its future and all its hoped for

to stretch away from myself and away from the people around me

I return to the end of the waters

like the wave gaining back its lost strength and pulling its atoms together

and spreading once again

collecting thoughts, anxieties and all lost on shores after the hit

swallowing more in than it did before

its arms gathering whatever is left

taking back all it did and wished for, sucking in and inhaling the shells and grains of sand

to float once again in the mind of one who’s heart is lost

to accept and lie to my mind once again and say

let us fight again, a new trial waiting for its twin error

so a new wave comes back pushing through all it thought it couldn’t

that fresh inhale ready for a warmer exhale

stronger this time, floating above in pride

this force lighter almost

for some of its weight was lost at the edge of the sea

remains of the crash lost in between and under these rocks

reading from afar this time, the traces of power the rock shamelessly holds

so she comes

excited for a return,

a comeback

aggressive she comes

almost ready to swim in the wave itself

she wants to take its form and open her mouth

in beauty she screams

with smiles and a laughter behind her loud undomesticated rage

unable to tame or culture

hungry for change but less like a teenager, more like a savage Eve

and once again the rock with a neglected back, ignoring all the wave had worked for

without its weapons, without a sense of defence even

like a one-sided battle that the wave only knows of,

prepared for and worked hard for

the rock sits there asleep, waiting for a wave to hit again and again

cold, lacking compassion.

no answers, no questions, no curiosity, no taste to hunt and seek pleasure

no mask to live under

I can’t even disappoint this rock

it’s unable to feel defeat

it’s not an enemy or some intimidating embodiement of strength

it’s lazy and has the gift of patience and power

like the God, whom we don’t hear from and can’t speak to

but exists to control all we think we do ourselves.

tease the God and curse, but he won’t feel defeated

he is better than you and always will be

so is the rock

maybe not better,

but stands to distrupt the distance I wish to take

the land the wave wishes to reach for and touch

maybe even feel

but maybe the rock knows what’s best

or is incapable of feeling

maybe this wave will dissolve into the sand losing all it has collected and become

maybe this wave was only meant to crash and hit and repeat

and made to renew itself.

a rebirth bound to die and die

in you, everything dies.

I die twice a day

sometimes better and twice a month

but I come back for myself

I come back for you

I pull myself like the waves and come back to you with all I have

to hit

to feel your violence in all that is around me

to become your violence

to inhale and exhale all I hate around me

Words by Dina Lobo


And if you think they lie in eyes

then you have yet to witness the motion of hands

I begin to say, the ultra vulnerability

unmasked and clean after all its touched, hit and scraped.

You assume eyes would have the spark of that innocent ray

but no,

hands are enriched by

the shaking of the nerves

the excitement of the veins

even the bored movement of the fingers

the baby spirit still making the same shapes and swirls in space.

In hands I see children before reality consumes them

In hands I see compassion even after being stepped on like an insect

if we judged criminals based on the lines they draw with hands

before their touch of violence

only then would they be forgiven and even admired for such sweet hands.

Even the hand plotting your murder

you’d find a delicate innocence in the murder.

In eyes sleeps a cloudy illusion

in eyes, vile beauty build weights of nauseating emotion on clouds.

in hands and the ever-growing nails on fingers

are unable to manipulate

they are evidence of your humanity when all your work and sins fails you.

Nothing protects them, but they don’t seek no shields

for they know, no one is watching.

Not just watching, but they know not of the magic that exists in them.

unlike the tricky gleams of the eyes

and the strength of the pupils

relentless hands that play with the air

frail and youthful

dancing with the same air the eyes can’t inhale.

Anxieties reveal themselves in hands

even love, with all its darkness and stubborn gestures – completely bare in hands

carved from the tips to the more subtle sensitive wrists; the end of the hand’s open book.

The eyes have companions of many

I count the lips, the outline of the cheeks and nose

but the hands only have themselves.

If only my hands could join your warmth and you’d accept them without me

if you only you would hold them and say

that you understood my blood and shared my sorrow

If both our hands could greet each other in acknowledgement

of all that our cowardly lips and eyes couldn’t utter

if only

my hands could speak for me

Ah, for they do

but no one is watching

so for yesterday and tomorrow in lying eyes I remain.

Yes, I remain.

Words by Dina Lobo

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑