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