Ian Axel Anderson ~ daze


we are the lingering corners
beneath the pine wood and myrrh,
the summer pictures and
scraps of discarded dreams, arms tired
from smithing the friendships as they fray
and make unnameable ends, lying still
like the flickers of grasshopper fingers over the keys
whispering against trust
we are weakening at the knees
listening to the slow drip of electrons in the afternoon quiet and
the vibrations from the air conditioner’s rusting mouth.

the twilight creeps in with her gold dust,
candle bulbs in towers, crossed by the weakening dark and purple
the low shadows, and the breath of the city in cotton
we hear the clapping of shoes and ice cream buds
strapped into waffle petals, the ringing of the evening star, loudest
in the dimness, the matchbox beds and the cat’s eye, opening
welcome mats of concrete like open graves.

the night deadens,
the hands curl and
the chest seeks warmth
the eyelash weakens against the thralls of sleep,
there’s an inching at the neck, strung tight by the shoulder blades
struggling not to give in to fatigue,
we linger in the cold of the air, the scratching at the stoop’s foot
there is red on the mouths
fires in the bodies
and restlessness in the fingers rolling up the thighs
stalling at the knees
the snails of lust entwining
in her tongue’s gnarled branches

our rust bends and
darkening on her limestone fingernails,
sun and moonlight
wrapping us around one another and
sliding beneath the sheets—risking the ivory whites
for her seas of turquoise
it is a slimming of the hips and the mouths widening
fitting the lips to the teeth
and eyes to the socket ceilings
the writhing stretch
a tightening of the ribs
the frothing of sleep, a rising
and a cautious placement of feet on the hard wood floor.

our cracks are fitted with shower steam and lightness,
sips of juices and the intake of crinkling air
in the first cries of daylight’s drops
the opening is fluid, we’re driving into the open mists
deeper into the scalds, the trickles
and the bend of toes into dove soap and plaster,
it’s like heat into the veins,
soaked in by leather palms and the curling hairs
the day runs about the ankles
flitting in the breaking light,
into the ease down the stairwells and the stretching cords
it is the calmness in the shuffle of feet
a broil in the first inhale of the waiting moments
the day rolls in like a calm tide
stealing the sand, slickening the mind’s shore
leaving behind the sandcastle dirges
and casting us out
into love’s slow, dark waters.


Ian Axel Anderson is a 24 year-old poet and marketing strategist living in Brooklyn, NY. He is the author of “Death & Los Angeles” (2Rise Publishing, 2015) and performs his work regularly with the Poetry Brothel of New York City under the alias “Von Hohenheim.” Anderson was a member of Swarthmore College’s OASIS Slam Poetry team (placed 9th overall in the national competition) in 2012/2013, and has been writing poems for 7 years. His first online publication came in 2009, as a high school student in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and his first print publication occurred while at Swarthmore College in 2010.

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