Perfectly circular moon seems glued to the sky.
Low, yellow, flat – like a piece of parchment.
Dry and uneven.
Street lamps holding up to it fistfulls of yellow glow –
sacrificial fireflies.
I feel flat, stuck to the landscape like a rough sketch.
Eclectic collage of bits held together with glue.
Unmoving.
Unreal.
Unalive.
Choices are difficult.
You choose life and passion –
of course you do!
But there,
in the centre,
in the shadows and folds,
death lurks.
Decay of complacency,
lack of emotional investment today
breeds the boredom of tomorrow,
black mold overgrowing your passion,
smothering it in a soft, furry blanket,
killing it through comfort,
illusion of safety,
abdication of control…
To keep life
you have to keep choosing it
every day,
every hour,
every minute.
And you do –
of course you do –
until you tire
and let the mold take over.
The open wound is laughing at me.
Scarlet lips, glittering teeth of bone deep inside,
streaks of blood dulling as they congeal…
I laugh back at it, mouth open wide –
loudly, victoriously, triumphantly.
It is only a flesh wound –
I can master it,
I can manage it,
I can thrive in spite
and feel stronger for it.
Not like the other ones –
dull and habitual aching I feel –
the wounds I can’t reach,
the wounds I can’t heal,
they have nothing they teach –
deep under the skin,
the wounds closed over.
“We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed in seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.“
– J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Elliott
As I walk through the world in the morning, I walk through chores:
Brush my teeth, feed my flesh, lift my eyes and observe the world.
See the light watch the shadows: frightened and slightly porous
It is braving the dark, but the darkness remains unfurled.
Like a puppy, to no avail
Light is chasing its own tail.
Ceaseless effort – no rest, no sleep
Leaves the shadows dark and deep.
In the forest, the room, the mind
They just move as they hide behind,
They never diminish
Fade out or finish.
And the dance goes on, like a tide – as it ebbs, it flows.
And the mind wanders off, but off what and off when – who knows?
Oh, but time is a funny thing:
Lucky – spiral, unlucky – ring;
Snake consuming its own tail
Has no future, no past, no fail.
With no fail comes no gain – no foul.
As ouroboros tries to howl
It’s unable to rant and rail,
Mouth gagged with a scaly tale…
It is time to abandon this train of thought
As it leaves us nowhere and profits nought.
If I look the look, talk the talk
Then I also should walk the walk.
As I wend my way through the virgin wood,
All I see are multiple shades of green,
All I hear is hue, hue and cry of birds
Known just by the sounds – a sight unseen.
But my mind gets pulled from the joy sublime
Of the sight and sound, the leaves and birds
To the stinging nettles that intertwine
Unremitting brambles, as sharp as words:
“Why the fuck did I wear shorts?”
As I focus on light and sound,
I forget to attend to thorns.
Joy is found, but also bound
By recurrence of cuts and burns.
The annoyances and the strain
Can be taken away by train.
The train that blurs the near spares far,
Serenely cloudscapes through heavens glide.
An airplane left antiseptic scar
Amid the clouds, stumble on the ride.
Landscape renews and we in comfort cruise,
But dusty windows engender dusty views.
A patch of lights through clouds gives me joy
Untampered, instant and without words.
It filters down softly to alloy
Itself with shadows in subtle smooth sensations –
The joy of pure vision midst the turds
Of unremitting complications.
My elasticity declines as I get older –
Of skin and time, and arteries, and veins.
My hands and feet – they are a little colder
Each winter with increase in aches and pains,
As well as other relevant increases
In colds and flu with snottiness and sneezes.
If snake of time contracts then what remains
Is an attempt to stretch the space with trains.
Ouroboros of time constricts my breath.
As body shrinks my mind expands – and shatters
Its dissolution congruent with death
But also with infinity of matters.
What cannot stretch can break and reassemble.
Abandon frame, you all who enter here.
Reconstituted, you will still resemble
Yourself to others, even those near
And dear, them, who try to fix in space
Of ageing body time’s dissolving trace.
At the end of the day we arrive. It’s a velvet curtain.
The applause increases politely as curtain drops.
At the end of the day you are feeling alive and certain.
Your heartbeat is apparent to you just before it stops.
First you figure out who you are not;
then you figure out who you are;
finally, you figure out you are not who.
My mind is sloshing in an empty brain,
Forgotten jokes rising to the surface.
Unbidden tears rising in my eyes,
Unbound, unconnected and unclear,
There is no sadness – maybe loss and mourning
But then for whom or what?
I am confused.
I wade through rain and waters of Berlin,
My mind precedes the tower of Babel –
It grasps the meaning, but discards the form.
The language spoken is of no importance
And does not register or muddy
The waters – deep and murky as they are,
With lurking Moray eels and tiny spiders
Who build a home from the air bubbles,
All light and sparkle, lightness and the beauty
Supported by a web of finest silk,
A bubble dance distorting space and vision,
Concealing occupant, revealing truth…
I wander through a half-imagined city
Of memories and loss and expectations
With long-forgotten, longed for sense of lightness.
This, too, shall pass.
It’s time to gather stones.
Symbolizing enchantment and splendor, these blooms are meant for royalty. One of the rarest colors, lavender roses are often a sign of love at first sight and carry an air of regality. It’s truly the perfect rose for a budding romance. [Sarah Dimarco, Veranda – poshness-aspiring magazine – March 22, 2021]
When I was young and trusting I was told to seek and I’ll find
My lavender roses would wait just ’round the bend.
Around the bend I went all out in body and mind
But roads bent and twisted and would always end in dead-end.
I went for unaffordable and always got it for free.
I stood on words and principles in unsustainable poses.
They gave me what I wanted and I screamed that I disagree.
And all that I had left to me were pure lavender roses.
My road to salvation went south while heading North.
A thousand bipasses appear when the straight path closes.
While finding my direction I only tied up in knots,
My body cut and bleeding from the thorns on lavender roses.
I made my own way into the middle of the deep dark wood.
I found a crystal coffin where the perfect place of repose is.
My peace is on my terms and I have now done what I could
But all that I have left to give are broken lavender roses.
My well is deep and almost full of sadness,
its waters dark, its syrupy contents
attracting ants and flies and other creatures:
some birds and mice that sunk under the surface,
preserved in sugar – feathers, fur and bones,
like little gods, demanding adoration.
The lure so sweet: abandon hope,
abandon disappointment, strife and effort,
become an angel, paragon of virtue,
of feathers so smooth, and white, and silky,
forever undisturbed, forever perfect,
forever still.
Intoxicating poison
of sugar, death and mystery fermented –
the nectar of the gods,
the well of legend
containing waters of eternal youth.
