I am afraid of your fear…

And I am afraid of your incomprehensible fear
To hurt me with the longed truth of either extreme,
I am afraid of the unadulterated it which my will
Mars with its improperly lasting candour and leer

I am afraid of my late aversion for sharing the air
Of the same urban province of metal and concrete,
And I am afraid of the toils of this unearned despair
Which seeks to hurl me faraway in another's pith

And I am afraid of the internecine pride which 
Scalds us both with irretrievable loss of cosmic gem,
I am afraid that so fully compos mentis we twitch
And gag with unfulfillment a rare magic within reach

The photo’s source

It’s winter here

It’s winter here and I hate it.

Skeletal trees shadowing the white
And flawless at first blanket,
Now unbearably stained with evanescent traces
And hideous impurities.

It’s winter here and I hate it.

The frozen handle sticking his red palm on,
And this whole décor of bareness
And fruitlessness framing him
Reflected, a befitting aura.

It’s winter here and I hate it.

The insecurity of my feet, this extra attention required
When all I discern is
The ardent need to let go,
Ease myself of some thing I cannot define.

It’s winter here and I hate-love it.

Milky clarity in the night that beseeches
Insomnia accesses from their maladjusted mind,
Crystals of stabbing iciness
Hanging from their windows.

It’s winter here and I love it.

The preserving season whose shrinking days
Coerce you to lock your gaze onto you,
Pointing out every little vulnerability
That drags on your soul.

It’s winter here and I love it.

The careless atmosphere that steals steam
And warmth from our breath,
Desolate mist of  kind water layered
Between stiff soil and uncaring clouds.

It’s winter here and I love it.

Elusive childlike happiness engulfing me
At the glacial sight even the crows avoid,
Miserabilism of burdened wings demanding
Playful reaction from my mizzled inertia.

 

The photo’s source

Affidavit

Spread my drenched words of resilience,
Duly paint the stained canvas
Of milky anti-climax with.
Mauve mutiny contouring the corners,
Steady frame of weary pedantry outlining
The mess, the futility, the stress
Of rushing forward, of hustling backward.

It's not enough, this pandemonium of unbearability
Thawed in patience and confined in renowned will,
Not enough to ensure the scar’s irredeemable depth.

"The man of sweat thrusting the crane in profile of bleak sky,
The clean entering in his mushroom house and his wife’s womb,
The taciturn comprehension of rife days rinsed in beer and bromide."

Slide the polished dagger in the architrave
Of my tender vulnerability,
Extend the timorous gape of agonizing malady.
Does it crumble, does it lunge
With pulse of bleeding corolla?
Too decisively hammered with spikes of barren
Upheaval? Such mess, such futility, such stress.

It's not enough, the crafty eulogy of ultimate defeat
Throbbing throughout the unfastened scaffold,
Not enough to annul the sour taste of doomed perversity.

"The ferocious dog with his snout clenched in protective leather,
The chaste warmth dripping from his fawn pits of sight onto me,
The restlessness diving through my bodily pool of torpid resignation."

Scoop the oozing lard of un-vanishing pugnacity,
Disgusting capsule of soaring ambition
Curdling the fluid desire of renunciation.
Does it melt the crucial centre,
The iron bar heated in devilish derision?
Does it finish off the outgrown
Sprouts of frenzied, preposterous hope?

It's not enough, this gloomy sentiment of abdication
Hovering as a welcoming menace over my curling fingers,
Not enough to convict for longed eternity the idiosyncratic aim.

"The familiarity of that man’s eyes twinkle and right sort of green,
The lusciously full lips envisaged bruising all over my delicate flesh,
The amusing yet flattering nervousness of the too insecure other."

Could it be durable, could it be intimate?
The affidavit assumed as inherent duty
For not tedious but truthful ego.
To portray the quakes blown by winds
Of unsteady yet sculpted fortune.
To collect and value without estimates
The stoning lava of elapsing time.

 

The photo’s source

The Visit

 

In that now indelible evening, everything was as vapid and tepid as usually. Back from my wearing yet refreshing as idea of ‘professional vocation’ job, numbed by the 3 cups of milky and honeyed coffee that kept me going through that day only with a ham and cheese croissant grabbed in the morning rush, I decided to take a therapeutic bath.

The lime scented candle contrasting with the sweet marshmallow flavour of the bubble gel always has on me the same effect as an invigorating dive in an ever-welcoming sea. Expiatory. I lazily rubbed my skin with the abrasive sponge as to remove yet another layer of deceased cells, and flicked through my journal’s previous night entry. I had honestly laughed at the image of my pathetic and passionate scribblings, punctuated with negligent spelling errors and pangs of utter despair.

Such biochemical imbalance at this unfit point of third-of-life-spent-already! xxvii years out of the predicted average of lxxxiii for a human female in a developed world. Reasonably young, about xiii years of prime time of life still to go. Yet, just another organic matter shell of comprehended truths and fallacies, of withered and reclaimed ideas, of mercurial aspirations and crippling delusions, of delectable recipes repeated at dinner time for the years gone and the ones to come.

A foretelling perspective: soon, lovingly embodied chimera of prosperity and gain. Marriage, progenies, own spacious shelter, professional laurels, enriching trips and snapshots, a collection of fine wrinkles a few decades from now…and then?

Justifiable, even though futile lamentation? Very probable, considering the repetitive nature of human itineraries. And my generous vanity that has ever strived to tickle me with ideas of undeniable unicity yet continually failed to utterly becalm my sensitivity. Oh, such gloominess, such entrapping sense of vain!

I generally get tired, well, in fact exhausted, when I demand an impossible protruding of our transient nature. Aching temples, trembling limbs, eyes about to pour a few streams.  A complete menu really. As I am cerebral and sufficiently capable, despite my self-involved character, to name my exact states, and as self-pity is one I cannot stand, I had decided to interrupt my splenetic sinking. I got out, slipped into my overly vintage-styled bedroom, and put a favourite record on.

“Live fast, die young…

live fast, die young…

live fast, die young…”

played a candid suggestion of plausible refrain in my feverish imagination. Wrapped in my silky black chemise, I started dancing around the fluffy Persian carpet, imagining a ritual of spells that would deny me the unreeling of such a trivial yet desirable destiny! Of petty mortal being. I went on for quite a while, even though I have never been a too keen or skilled dancer.

At the very precise moment when I felt a sudden twinge of total insight (or acute tiredness?), of late night cathartic revelation, it happened. A soft knocking on the entrance door.  Once, twice, three times. Then, sharp. No pull of the doorbell. Instinctively I looked at the antique horologe suspended on the Eastern wall, piece of collection inherited from my now cassette-of-dust grandmother. Almost midnight.

I approached the massive, wooden frame of the entrance door with the rhythm of a snail crawling on a leaf. I couldn’t distinguish any sound beside that of my accelerated respiration and didn’t dare to look through the eyehole. So, instead, I stuck my body next to the smooth, glossy surface that separated me from outside, and listened tightly.

The steady race of a breath.  In tandem with mine, as if mingling with it, yet clearly louder. I stepped back as burned. After an instant of hesitation and reproach regarding my ludicrous and unacceptable attitude (have always perceived myself as brave, even slightly fierce!), I moved forward again and stared through the hazy aperture. And then…then, I saw you.

I could not describe in poor decrepit adjectives the amount of warm pleasure I felt when I recognized you. I sensed as if the time and distance that stood between us for so long had dissipated at the sight of your bright as dew and heavy as oceans lights. I opened the door, pulled you in. Sat with you at my tiny bedroom’s elliptic table, grabbed your hands and kissed your beautiful ebony hair. You wiped my teary face with it, then pushed me back on my chair and handed me, smiling, my long-forgotten ring. You told me how you wore it next to yours on a burgundy velvet necklace, for all the ages that had passed since we last met…

You look around, then at me.

“It wasn’t the right time then, but now it is. You asked for it, and you still desire it, so now we are going to do it.”

A guileless play of alchemy: glassy globe, cordial palms, a kaleidoscopic chandelier in the bleak, unappealing darkness of improvised tent. Proffer me your ring, let’s grate a special rock between our golden circles. Now impart the content of the sacred chalice half equal. Rub it on your epidermis. The magic number begins. A karma request as starter.

Close your eyes, scatter this mysteriously pungent powder on the sphere, put the lamp’s dim light on me. What do you see? The minutes tear their seconds away as a downpour of pebbles rushed by a torrential, hazardous weather. Open your hypnotic scrims. What did you see?

“Compactness. Utter compactness. As if I can’t flay the emergence of your self’s impenetrable fortification”

“Pigmy apology. This is a total nonsense! We act as toreros whose bait is anything but scarlet, and whose bulls have effaced themselves as to prevent the disembowelment of the deluded bipedal warriors… Enough. Pull the curtains apart, maim to shards this contemplation of augury.”

“No. Only because your fascination has surrendered to scepticism, doesn’t mean it won’t work. At least for one of us. If you deliberately and wholeheartedly choose, you shall never un-choose. Else, all it is irredeemiably lost. It is my time now. Read me. Don’t act petulant.”

Without dogged pressure, I easily capitulate. Only for the ones I adore, for sure. I close my eyes. I strive to envisage you aside from the shadow of the retro buffet profiling behind you, aside from the demure mauve collar of your snowy dress and the green inquisitiveness of your flickering torches.  A grayscale scene disentangles in my oddly limp vision.

                                                                  ***

Argent horizon, fleecy pellucid clouds, a Stygian tree. Beneath its corolla of nigrescent needle-like leaves you stand integer in a chiffon ivory dress, still and inexpressive as if awaiting a mutilating purgation. A rustling sound distracts your fixation precisely when I am almost convinced that you transmute into a timeless gemstone. You stare up, and now I see, the zephyr sunders the clusters of sable foliage from their vital stable source. The sour cherries left as buds in the centre of each bundle are red, raw and glossy as easily spurted blood.

They hurt my mirage.

As I am about to faint with weariness and painfully profuse deference, I discern the voice. A raging, aching, terrifying sound. And I see it. Ethereal as your dress, brutal as the zephyr, unfathomable as my self’s compactness to you, I see it. A melanistic tiger. An assemblage of apoplectic vibration, a definite mass of erotic, injurious liveliness. Unperturbed, you still stare up, as if the crucial secret of your redemption from this imminent jeopardy is throbbing somewhere inside those minuscule, sanguine pearls of sharp sweetness.

I hold my breath, and the feral beast impatiently jumps straight over you and impales its savage canines of flesh eater in the scarce spheres that shamelessly hang up there, the limpid objects of your rapt analysis. Then, to my utter dismay and disbelief, he gently kneels in front of you. As a devout pilgrim on the hassock of his idolized temple. As a damned criminal on his preordained guillotine.

With unvaried indifference, you collect every single bearing from between his splashed with bleeding juice fangs and swallow them in a frozen instant, without a single quiver of your humanly flexible mandible. You pierce your right forefinger tip in his edgy tusks and pour the colourless drops inside his eager wide-open mouth. He closes his eyes, and your fingers begin to stroke his immaculate fur. You climb on his broad slender back, and I clearly notice his muscles beautifully lifting him up on his irony scaffold of bones, while creating a river-like undulation on his complete guise. Barefoot, with unkempt hair and now gory lips, you smile.

You glance at me and now I see that your eye sockets are wholly white as well. You point your damaged finger at me, prophetically, and the feline observes me as well, for the very first time. As he sights me, I realize it. He’s got your haunting eyes. Verdant sapphires. As from an underground or upper ground realm, sheer echo of serenity, you murmur in a now tender and redundantly static atmosphere,

“A small price to pay for a vivid phantasm. Two irides for intimacy of inspirited yearning.”

                                                            ***

A resounding reverberation. A corrupted lamp next to a breakable globe. At a wooden table, in a minuscule chamber with jetty curtains on, a silhouette. In her right outstretched palm, two golden rings. On her opposite side, a Gothic mirror with gilded frame adorned by immemorial symbols.

“Through alchemy, scoop my eyes, and then see. It is all worth it.”                   

                                                           END

 

The photos’ source

Sequence

…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