It is the confessional tone that appeals you, isn’t it?
A proof of dissected intimacy,
An invasive yet pertinent incursion
Inside me. What is there for you to see,
Feel, Touch, Retain, Disdain?
A scented curio, a prickly nimbus, a filthy fiasco.
Yes, I am that peculiar babe of trois couleurs:
Destined to sheer greatness,
Preceded by (followed too?) recurrent dejection
And consuming infirmity.
There is no vestige in it of fortune or good will
Hunting, collapsing and hackling, there is only malice.
A manner of natural entropy, an incidental sorting.
Yet attuned to
An origin, a gender, a background, a status.
Disparities. (conquerable in times)
La strada and the agora of high defiled by vile,
Utter melancholy imbued in the Mona Lisa smile,
Defloration colligated with stealing beauty.
Nevertheless, still strolling along, still affronting the odds
Of inevitable, belated integration into a
Dead Poets Society.
Still I unfold, spontaneous or elaborate, and you sneak
In as I invite you to and carve me
Farcical, deluded and representative masks,
With your volatile translations…
What do I mean, what did I mean, mean and altruistic,
Unfeigned and egoistic,
When I flew beyond the vapid rainbows, when I danced
With the blind ravens on moonlight, when I lamented
Kelebeğin rüyası ravishing me?
How could I still know then,
How could I make you see?
Stymied the creativity when precariously analysed, no freedom
Writers, such ludicrous, conceited and flagellated
With intrinsic calamity creatures!
All in. A beautiful mind, a corrupted corpus, a wretched soul.
What more is there to scribble on?
Bruise your lips in my cavities,
Suck my turbulent biography as if a hard candy.
Am I venerable, am I evacuable?
Clench your fingers around my liable pores, hold. Sweet dekalog:
Hold me as if I were the brave one that redeemed you
From the ultimate hell,
The one that on your raw scratch applied the healing patch
Adam s to your Eve s, Eve s to your Adam s. Absolute match.
Pouring my poetry into you as transfiguring transfusion, a spell
Of sacred duty, to live through you,
As ce que le jour doit à la nuit,
The completion. In your womb,
I giggle and I scream.
The rite, oh, let me through, one day only through you
I live and die, as in a jeux d’enfants, a sempiternal dream.
(*Tribute to cinema and my subsequent readers)
The photos’ sources: pixabay.com & personal archive