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?)

 

The photos’ sources: pixabay.com & pinterest.com

Inside the neurotic brain

I go through smoothly, as a cutlass through the weary flesh 
Of a mermaid's lost tail, 
One that ceased running to the escape of another
Breathable freshness of ocean.
It’s damp and sinuous, 
Vascularized by aliphatic strings of pearls
Blossomed out of tears of clingy lovemaking 
And slashed anxieties.
Oh, how enticing is its depth! 
How deliciously promiscuous
The thrill of aching wonders 
Smiling on you from its dark.
Flutters of forming sensations pass through your feverish scalp,
The obelisk whose interior you worship in waves 
Of electric charges and
Adoring secretions that sabotage your footing.
Yet, as an addicted cannibalistic
You can't refrain, can't resist from going deep, deeper, deepest
Inside this caustic sponge-like matter, 
At the risk of losing your self-delusion of
Impregnable sanity. 
And it lures you as 
The oxymoron of a palm reading of fortune by a blind old woman,
Even though you swim in neurotic anticipations of
Imminent lunacy.
What to gather inside a diamond cassette to keep,
What dearest sentiment to feed, 
When you know your fibres are immersed in 
The consuming sparkle of an oxyacetylene torch 
Of abandonment terrors?


(A diamond burns at a lower temperature than an oxyacetylene torch reaches.)

 

 

The photos’ sources: pixabay.com, https://c1.staticflickr.com/3/2940/14071517001_0462e5d892_b.jpg

By the shore

My toes linger playfully on this parting edge between 
Fine powder and cleansing fluid. It's not a slitting sensation,
Is comfortable.
I feel as after a night of carousing this unclear morning.
Imperceptible yet, as the summery effulgence of 
The sphere of tender and scorching flames
Is barely yawning itself out of somnolence.
I sit loosely on my roaming valise full of leathery books wrapped in
Delicate lace ribbons, all their pages bare and forbearing.
Whispering only after sunset their eulogy of patrician and
Bereft orders. The dissembled supplications:
Fill, fill our files, fully fill our files.
My only garment, the satin dress, is undependable, easily obeying
To frivolity. Reveling in the seldom wafts of fresh breeze,
It floats and flutters on me as a mantle of dragonfly wings.
White striped with translucence and embroidered with silver.
I pull at it, roll it, push it. Its sycophantic nature amuses me greatly.
I stop and breathe in lazily, deeply, repeatedly.
They are watching me now, I know, they always do so around this time.
It's never a proper stare, as if out of a sort of pudeur, they each time
Look beside me. Nevertheless, it is me they sense, I sense it too.
Oh, tonight I plan a debauchery!
Of disenthrallment.
I satiate myself on aperitif, then accept their invitation.
Honestly now, the self-mortification is not my kind of aim.
Such a vexation really, to dunk your ardour in ice cubes of
Penitence for the undone!
Yes, I will teem with discarnate credo afterwards.
My thespian luxury: flying on moonlight 
With them. Yes, I trust them, I do. The blind ravens.
They defiled their frights long ago, are tainted only,
As this emerald ocean, with bombastic poise.
The Sundays’ governor is up, better hurry up back
To my baroque chamber, before my paper soaks.

II
I anxiously waited for hours, with my red jalousie slightly raised,
For the clearing of terrain. They all succumb to utter darkness,
They all draw away in seclusions their peachy, perishable forms
At these hours. The rattle, the other humans.
They said a hail of their glaring feathers at my window
Will emboss the path in my heart.
It so happened. As driven by psychic sight,
I walked as on clouds of sweet candy floss up on the abrupt coast.
They were there already. When they began whisking 
As a shower of revelations around me,
I madly laughed, and a galvanizing tremor passed through me 
As a ritualistic current of sheer purification.
The adoring moon rays suddenly laved the pinnacle
And my dress burned on me at once.
No scar, no hurt, only melted resistance.
They kept their circle intact, same large circle around me
Over and again, faster and faster,
Until the wave they created undistinguished them and I
Could only taste the irresistible force that lifted me
In the weightless air, as if a weightless being.
Then, they spread out their wings and flew further up and away from me,
On the way to the moonlight’s core that only I could see.
I expected to fall, down, deep down, down dead…
But I didn’t. I grasped the wonder with wonder: I was covered in 
Silky feathers, no hard or sticky edges, no bony milky resemblance. 
All pure, dark, and light as the soothing night. 
I dashed as a flash towards the empyrean, chased and guided
The blind ravens, danced with them, around and inside them,
All over the moonlight…
Now? I am back by the shore, one more life file filled.
Deep, down, done. Ready for other longed 
Realms of unalterable bouquets. 
But I would do it again, as the gift of flying liberty
Is the sacred sense of hatching off the clepsydra of mortality.

 

The photo’s source

The desert’s one

My desert mind is a starved vulture. It sucks
Hard, greedy, unceasingly
At my breast, ribs crushed and plaited with blood
Vessels, chambers of pulse and breath mangled
In shreds of red, violet and desecrated blue.
Who waves her limbs at me
From my past, who is she, can you see?
A bit terrifying, that shadow rusted by tears
And odours of diffluent failures.
Her hands, a reassuring grasp.
Digits of specious torpor. Her promises?
A futurity of sear plumage, unconstrained by
Felicity and prosperity. All light, all perishable.

My desert soul is a deluded tick. It bides its prey,
Blind and anxious, pendent on a twig about
To crack, deprived of vim and cordiality.
Who wrings her sinews of iron, who is she,
Can you see?
The fibres rarefy their yield, everything in crawls
And discards pieces of me along a dim trajectory.
Her bare soles, stripes of derelict land.
Sandy realm awestruck by scorching toxins.
Her gurgles?
An afterlife of vacuum, unshaken by
Fruition and concord. All dejected, all unsaved.

My desert body? Still zealous, still laughably brave.

 

The photo’s source

Every Sunday, on the wooden bridge

 We met. Gleeful, scurrying towards that terrain free of
 Hindrances, we ogled each other from our opposite origins.

 Then no uncharitable objective ejected from our inner bubbler,
 And no rodomontade encroached on our quixotic complicity.

 We were as crystalline as the river beneath in which we dabbled our bare
 Feet, as manifest as the old purveyor who rode his green rusty bicycle

 On all weathers to the city’s market.

 Each time a new fragrance eluded his basket filled with flowers and spices,
 And among rose, myrrh and anise we galvanized our flickers with guesses.

 The bedtime stories with monsters who sometimes ~we knew it too well~
 Cohabit with our reclusive reality, abated to flea size, when together.

 In turns, one leaned over the rope railing screaming “I trust you
 Completely”, while the other’s hands yielded the sole point of support

 Until both on edge of syncope.

 There was never a farewell waving, nor any promise of forever as we
 Could only envisage our souls cupped as petals in sepals in each other.

 Now? Now each Sunday I parse the gems of that timeless world
 And burnish, as august warriors the scabbard of their life-saving swords,

 Our non-floodable quay.

 

The photo’s source