realities

 

we are worlds apart as we drift through the space from me to you.

in silence

without a sound of confidence in any power one might have over the significant other’s glimpses.

so we turn the worlds inside out in search for those rebellious flowers defying the senses of time

flashing

and hoping for a different outcome

than the one which has already been prescribed by our mortal hands the moment they touched the lips

which are now sealed tightly with thistles and roses

 

the vines in their ripples swallow the effects of time

deluding itself, once in a while, that everything is different, therefore, fine.

 

so here we are, worlds apart,

where happiness is the only option to create new worlds around the old ones,

so we replace them with clear and synthetic beauties,

prefabricated thoughts which drift in the space between me and you

captive in their train and lost in their own lines of very high voltage,

where no light can enter because everything is sealed,

like our lips

which shall never utter the words of sin.

 

yet a small key is turning silently

shattering the will of creating worlds that keep drifting apart from one another

and locking in the thought of the only world that has always mattered,

the one where lights never go out

where the suns do not project shadows of doubts

where everything is clear and beauty is no longer synthetic

and happiness is not a prerequisite, but is found in the soles of the rebellious flowers stepping down from the field onto the bare ground and

live, just for a bit. of time, flashing.

 

 

 

 

experiments

stretch the happy thoughts to their limit,
they’ll most likely vanish into the thin collarbones they throw at us, smiling.

morning light pierces through the night
clears our path to the unknown
undresses us layer by layer,
helps us rise to our morning glory with solidified hearts and
green, new bruises around our arteries,
as they twist and twine within our common thoughts,
as they conjure new meanings out of the unwor(l)dly gods of our discontents

let sleep rise from your blurry iris
gently, it sweeps the back of your lashes
let sleep back inside your mind,
our eyes move faster and faster, in search of
that warm tingle in the soles of our deepest wishes,
except
there’s nothing to see in the new dawn of the same old, same old day

but we’re not aware, so we slowly
breathe in our chills and thrills
breathe out lions and fires, our new reality.

it’s swell, really. it truly is.

happy thoughts turn into your thin collarbone
and we keep smiling
all day long.

Safe Distance

His radiance which was once so bright

Paled at the blind sight of a younger Me

a fearless Me

a macro-Me

knotted in his loose eyes

while a green twig of some forlorn past

is forgotten for too long

out in the sun

its golden leaves are leaving the Me behind

since growing hurts her senses

alters her motives

brings her back to the light of perfect future:

you will have reflected your self in his eyes

invisible bullets drop to their knees,

untangling and twisting each ripple

of her former self in his eyes

Untying the links to the central divs of her nervous system

Slowly moving from one tormented center to the other, calmer margin

Where the ripple walks through her,

not noticing that

growing is never, ever

completely

over.

Baby steps

I feel her pain as it shivers down my spine

like twin souls who happen to find one another in different shapes and different times

I can see her in a glimpse in the mirror

the morning I get ready to give a eulogy

when there’s no logic left in the world

just a sense of morals too extended to the hand that once led me here

in this spot right here

where safety was granted and where I was

me

the hard-worker

the gentle

the sweet sweet girl he will marry someday

the beautiful face locked in a glance of sympathy

all that energy

gone

her pain grows stronger day by day

something cripples within me minute by minute

each passing hour shrivels into a circle of light,

away,

away from us, lighting the skies

while we run

out of time

out of time

out of time

out of ////////.

I`ll hold your hand. I`ll never let you go. I promise.

Courage

I cut my fingernails in little fragments of fear
my hands look smaller this way
like something new had just been born out of the need to set everything free-
fear with it, too

going back to T minus 0.
now I’m small again
and meaningless
and no one knows still
what these fingerless hands can do
the nails are hammered deeper in the skin

every word is energy, they said
my energy is only words and not even those sometimes,
when I struggle to find the right ones
speech is beyond our (diverted?) senses
of freedom
of the fear of it
of the hidden obscure cameras in your little camera where you catch the glimpse of a word,

colorful

shiny

dancing

around YOU

when you say “constructive”

“Fear is constructive”

and normal

and it makes me step forward,

at pace with reality

put a face to my name

enjoy the tingling of nerves growing

temperature’s rising

palms sweating

shaking

shivering

trembling

exploding

in words denoting the connotative

no need for nails anymore

All energy is positively hanging.

“My fear is my substance and probably the best part of me”- Franz Kafka

Portrait

Rows and rows of Me-s going into the light as shadows of a future self
Not so far away, there’s a desperation in the sounds they project towards the hill.
Insurmountable – it seems to be the right word for some of the Me-s
others will just fade away in sunlight they’ll lose their skins and wait for immortality forever
some will use big words to cover their shame and fear of getting lost from their loved ones
a few will try not to hide beneath their newborn anger – implosion is inevitable
other Me-s will try to talk me out of everything
telling me all I do is not right and ethical
who am I to say what’s ethical and what’s not?
these Me-s will rob me of my slings and arrows
just to find their way back to the hill, which is safer lighter and brighter than the sun above their heads

but there’s one Me I like
one of them which will make me proud
one of them which will be true
and real in all of my irrealities
the sun will love her
will wake her gently at its rise
will guide her feet towards the black sea
foamy and full of shells and pebbles
one for every Me
who got lost along the way
who couldn’t climb the hill

to be with Me.

Xeno-linguistics

session of orthodox manners and twists of thought and

souls are hanging in a closet full of (not skeletons),

why did you think of tons of tones so diverse as they dry melodies out of their harmonies

where there’s not much to rely on to begin with

but your instinct`s always just a glance you catch by a blink of the  electric eye, I IIII

I`m no longer in a hurry to find out anything

I`m no longer gasping for air

I`m no longer asking questions

I have all the answers to every little question I might ask during the session of unorthodox manners and twists and turns

I undestand your harmonies and moneys

Souls are not always hanging

colourful baloons, saying

welcome to Planet Earth

do you copy/

no.

yea

ou t

of

commission

my mission  or

I return to saying nothing at all.

 

No-thing

misguided by the pieces, struck by awe

my perplexity explodes
in the face of time. ssssstop.

bits and pieces of what’s left of us
move in together to gather
the damns one gives for a dam which is about to crumble

our river flows slowly, it
throws rocks into our glass houses,
built over the years with so much care,
now I can see through it,
make sure it never breaks again.

nothing to see here
moving on moving on
passers-by pass by our broken link and drop off litter
which still glitters in your darkness,
ancient matters which don’t matter any longer
and everything would be perfectly fine
if you were not a single line
frightened by time’s enormity,
carrying my home and all there is to it
on your shoulders.

so, time.
time for wrapping it up and moving
time to spend cleaning the unwanted weed
that grew so close to your heart
over the years, while
no one gave a damn for your dam which was always about to crumble
and it never did.
and it never will
stop
playing.

“It is invisibility that forms the basis of interpersonal relationships – a basis which Laing (Scottish psychiatrist) calls ‘no-thing’. That which is really between cannot be named by any things that come between. The between is itself no-thing.” (Wolfgang Iser- “Interaction between Text and Reader”)

Present (Im)perfect

My individual bottle just got larger today
filled itself with dreams of opening
up to the wild wild world
inside of me.

Yet my time plays its tricks, as usual
stumbles upon its own somersualts
guesses the unthinkable
grows its axis
towards plus infinity
(plus or minus me?)
dreams within my bottle disperse
if they’re not cared for
dreams within a bottle cannot survive
if one’s bottle does not burst
into smithereens
hiding within the end (or the beginning)
of all things.

slowly, slowly
my dreams disperse, indeed
my bottle breaks
bits and pieces pierce the skin of my outrageous fortunes
outwards instead of within,
dreams come into a new Being
who’s silently watching colourful dreams
about future-me.

Must be true

Why am I inlove with tree in the sunrise?
So much happiness at once would blind all my senses,
So Sunshine seems swell
Since His rays beam through the twigs
perhaps it’s safer to play along
and let It come in gradually
in small doses, at first

An eyelash flutters

turns the world within green

the implosion will be so much sunnier/sinner
sin her.