…there are doors that, once they close upon some sorrow, become an abyss that not even the light of heaven cannot penetrate.” (Yasmina Khadra)

One tried and failed.
The other didn’t, what if hailed.
How to concoct forgiving
Out of never-giving?

              There are no olive leaves left in the jar. The peace left our vigilance.

The sinuous threads which tangle bribe
With safety illusions, off the tribe,
Our flames of unspoilt truth and creed.
A shame…your mesh couldn’t hold my need.

Soles of nonchalance have trampled the dream. Rust settles on its chimera.

In the heart that growls,
Perhaps a thorn grows
Out of sheer need.
Love leaves those who bleed.

Arguing is seething in the poison of another’s stance. Better forbear than glare.


The photos’ source

Thesis, antithesis & synthesis

INFJ: So, what’s your ideology?

INTJ: You want me to comprise my life’s anthem in a bunch of debatable letters then?

INFJ: Attempt to, yeah…Amaze me?

INTJ: Alright. Be loyal to the factual truth rather than to the people’s subjective and volatile sympathy – inclusively yours. It is the thesis of my guiding trinity, the hardest and bitterest substance to subsist on, but the closest to divine and furthest from sacrilege.

INFJ: What’s the antithesis of it?

INTJ: Cherish your feelings, but mangle and discard them when not reciprocal or if immoral, don’t act on them. My antithesis. As what’s genuine is perpetually pristine and prone to ripening by fulfilment. You can’t bring about fruition in a barren terrain out of sheer, unidirectional will, as sentiments are validated in duality, not unity. Nor can you gather cornucopia in a realm poisoned by another being’s agony. What endures and is worth chasing is never built on a single pillar of hope, nor on another’s collapse.

INFJ: And what’s the compensation point, the unifying principle of these two thirds, the synthesis?

INTJ: Let go but don’t let down. Even if you don’t care about. It should be the universal premise of human decency. Deceit pays you back manifolded, as does betrayal, lying, abandonment…and all the other petty crimes which gradually raze that which dwells beyond and beneath the organic shell. And if you care, if you truly care, hold on and affirm it mightily in words and facts, without shame, fear and ego. My synthesis. To hold on while being held onto, despite all derisive temptations and among crumbling destinies scented with cheap perfume of depravity, commodity and facile quitting, is the apogee of existence on all plans.


The photo’s source

The unfixable between

Is the snow I fill my mouth with
At every sunset, insipidity thawed in embers ripped
From the pellicle of a stricken
Dying love beacon

Is the scarlet peignoir carefully packed beneath
A bundle of unsent letters, hid
In a dusty carton box deposited on a spell
At unreachable distance, as the heaven and hell

Is the velvety portiere pulled over the fray
Thespians at the finale of a quaint play,
While its spectators await still
A limpid resolution, beyond reason and will

Is the gnomon’s shade on which I count
My mettle’s heavy breaths, no fount
But tricky machinery of evolution enclosed in
Torturous resignation, flaccid and dim

Is the truffle whose overdue sweetness we spread
On our bare skins, thread by thread,
During each celebration of another dawn,
Conscious and deft as unsparing butchers the fawn

Is the unasked-for libation we sprinkle, without
Remorse, on a sacrificed to oblivion burnout
Yet un-started shared existence of guileless affection
And undiluted, dually precious lection

Is the agraphia tormenting me on alabaster nights
Whose spectres dance nostalgia rites,
Which attempt to drain my irreversible decree
Of inexpiable repudiation and flee


The photos’ source

My dearest friend,

I saw you waving at the dusty window of the train,
Blurred image through the rain
Falling heavy and salty from the warm pits
Of my vacant eyes.
I did not but I thought “how strange, this burdening
Yet releasing feeling when the lucid stream
Leaks beneath the laced edge of my black top
And makes me aware of the rushed rising and falling
Of my bosom, the familiar rage in a fist-sized bleeding
Flesh keeping me ~all by itself~ afloat.

I folded my favourite strident scarf in the side pocket
Of your vintage suitcase. Is a gift
I want you to wear only when weary and bruised
In monochromatic dejection.
I charmed it, “may you be the happy string between
Two gaping neuroses never meant to complete in union,
An indelible maudliness that stings the dull memory
When it ransacks its crannies to free itself from
An unceasing present of tasteless search.”

I should follow your advice and give up trivialities
As the prettily shallow and boring ones I told you
So far. You were right, nothing is worth mentioning
Whether in sleep, avowal or skin
Unless it quakes your pith and keeps your eyelids
Un-shut. I murmured, “You will do more than fine,
I will undo less than that,
Why bother with complexity and grasp
When chasing and being nothing is such a fluent melody,
Undisturbed by the ache of ambitions?”

 I will survive their massacre without failing our promise,
You know how loyal I am to our delicate impossibility.
After all, you never trusted the peccadillos.
“If it is to fail, one should do it with style and enormity.
To chisel a resistant at time passing and explanations
Shock in the collective which tosses verdicts.”
As planned, halfway between Sun-day and Moon-day
I bare us on the pedestal of truth.
“Not split or mad, but self-shut.
In fact, I the ½ goddess of light, she the ½ mortal of dark.”


The photo’s source

I could be…(a to z)

The antediluvian railman in this forgotten by world village,
Hairline trimmed back, glasses on, grey suit, mug of coffee on
The little table travellers see behind the squared window where
Tickets are sold, radiator next to the chair to annihilate the cold.

The bore of the hunter’s gun, echoing witness to the bloody
Mess of mutilated wilderness, dusty heat surrounding
My metallic darkness, last screams filling my undefeated air.

The castanets maneuvered by the tipsy old man’s fingers at carnival,
Eyes lit with fading vigour, legs shook in the weary rhythm of
An unforgettable rite of joy while the inner spirit jumps
Lean over mountainous peaks, as an ageless chamois.

The drudgery penitents endure for a glimpse of salvation,
The decamping point of vanity where humility and regrets trickle
As ichor from the broken site of a healing wound.

The escrow that proves crucial point for a life changing,
The imperious standing against and among walls that tightens your will
And saves you from the numbness of bare crawling
On floors paved with spikes of indecisions and corruption.

The futon on which a clumsy night of lovemaking stains two
Opposites with taciturn apprehension and undeniable urge
To keep tangible a love euphoria in an unprotected world.

The gristle on which starved children sharpen their perception
Of marking backgrounds, chewable inedibility on which
The future balances itself between gradual commitments to
Bitter, predictable renunciation and raw, fatiguing persistence.

The hauteur of the snobs that disguise, in glacial politeness
And exaggerated disgust at the sight of filth, the impotency
Of holding on humanly to another through privations, illness, terror.

The iota of truth the liars, subjugated by a trace of prickly scent
Escaped from their wilted conscience, insert in the destructive yet
Destructible dominos they cover themselves with,
The dazzling light that blinds you in a sea of shadows.

The jeremiad issued from the affected throats of the pretentious ones
Who paint, powder and plan their bland masks for the next manifesto
Of their tediously faux and exaggerated soliloquy.

The killer whose sole Achilles heel is his own labyrinth
Of defective electric transmissions that generate an unfortunate sight
Of black and white only thoughts, an unfixable in life but in death
Cathectic latticework of monstrous instincts.

The loggia in which a harmonious family settles down,
And its long-term hopes grow roots mingled with those of the blooming
Fruitful trees of an orchard unfolded around as a heaven’s stairway.

The muscadine you squeeze in your palms, whose oozing
Juice you greedily lick with impatience and heavy longing
To fall inebriated on the ripe nature, that deeply intoxicating taste
You could not confound or give up on, no matter the era.

The nemesis of your sheer collapse, unsubdued by twinges
Of remorse or inundating ripples of kindly attenuation,
The inescapable instrument that dismembers you, inside out.

The oestrus that demands you undertake your shared miracle,
The nurturing cocoon of the upcoming hourglass of lovely resemblances,
All stitched with your both nerves and thrills,
That period which engulfs sensuous duality in a lately haloed trinity.

The pumice they lively scrape on their hardened, thick layers,
Aspiring to discard the infelicities that cling to their perishable serendipities
Like prehensile limbs of hauling, futile annexes.

The qualm that flutters as insufferable noctuids on your chest,
Surreal, plaguing presence that limps you on the chosen direction to
A door that could pass you on the other side of the abyss
Or could welcome you and damagingly trap you right in.

The rubble left when everything has been said and done, when
An uneasy soreness has riffled the splendour of a past no longer yours,
Debris of ghosts’ possessions carried in the heart’s pockets.

The suds in a bath taken in a greenhouse, the origin of your arrant glee
As you stare at the cloudless azure sky through a glass ceiling and,
Imbued with calming scents liberated from relaxed corollas, blow
Upwards bubbles which confine meanings in their pellucid reflections.

The triptych hung above your bed on the wall opposing the mirror,
An altarpiece that continually remoulds itself as you grow out
Of former egos, stroked by delicate touches of the time’s brush.

The umbrage of the one who takes you in even scorched to
The core, that sublime silhouette in whose soothing respite you can
Knot your loose threads and wipe with dew the searing salt of
Your dried tears and sweat, sheltered from harming heat.

The virginal with golden strings that trembles in seductive
Music of nude abandon, when you hover and press the inner, soft flesh
Of your fingers on its smooth and glossy keys.

The wintergreen she uproots and gathers in a neat bouquet
Whose sapping essence she then pours in a blend of magical
Medicine with unknown curing effects, willing to play with fatality
The way children play with paper that slits the skin.

The xenophobic puppy that howls deformed beliefs with saliva
Drops at the passionate mouth’s corners, unaware of the mechanical,
Unsafe ropes of the sad predecessors jerking his faulty stance.

The yarn born out of insipidity of existence, the motif
That generates worthiness sense in the tongue of the desperate teller,
A deluded possibility of improbable eventuality cultivated inside
The fields of an inflated and ashamed of itself memory.

The zany woman that threatens with unadorned candour and irony
The shallow appearance of your tiny carcass of finite yet so capable of
Abiding grandeur mortal, when you plumb the depths of love.

I could be, a to z, all the bridges between a solitude and the others,
The solid, converging structures indelibly linking the arcana whose
Haloes scatter effects and values on your soul’s canopy, the mothers
And fathers whose merged legacy you carry in and on, as vital muse.

(I could be all I weren’t meant to be, all I don’t mean being, but you see
I will ever aspire, my love, to be the all I was meant to be
While I mean being, and so I stay free…and may be the all for thee?)


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