Cobalt wind writes vigorous choruses,

Streets dissolve throughout trembling Mary-the-Mother-of-God statues,

Tremendous cherry resembles ever-reaching tranquility,

Glasses give source beyond splintered emptiness.

Now start to pray:

Here’s your Rothko.

This room – a silent place to sit. The quiet in the eye of a tornado. A churchyard adjacent to a cemetery.

Dimmed lights may voice in a millisecond what your answers sound like: are you ready to catch them?

The quiet religious revolution. The hollow, self-contemplating and mirrorless reflection in purée that deliberately covers rocky emotions behind the eyes.

The Wall of paint sinks eyelids. Reality soars in the canvas intelligibly for a second, and then the Stymphalian bird vanishes in the mass of on guard color as quickly as it took off, becoming invisible to the naked eye. The thin layer of ice on the cornea melts –  there is no hide in the corner. This work of art does not need you to be dressed – it needs you whole and free.

A return to when you never was, unless in the feelings of your parents. Geometric stillness inlays amalgams in the cracks of your porcelain mind. Scale as litmus test for humility.

Forget yourself, at last.

O.U. 30.07.18

If there are words to express my substance 

As long as I will find them 

I will be alive 

I think we should be pulled together like paper dolls through paper chains

Whispering “cross the old wooden bridge for me”

I want your shoulders to move unsteadily when you walk

I so want them destabilized for following me. 

In fact there is not much more beautiful than this. 

Until you widen your iris. 

Until you force the door to my home. 

Then I’d lock you for quite long. It will be tender with me.

I’ll cook for you every night, All required from you would be to just throw glances at me. Every look will be skin peeled off a lemon with bare hands. Fed by my mouth in our face-a-face dinner. 

All in attempt to connect you with me.  

I’d like to offer you flowers

But there’s a chrysalis blood clot in my heart that needs blooming yet

I’d like to wear pointy metallic shoes and carry a light bulb in my throat

To have a weapon on every step I take and illuminate my words when I speak

Every look in your eyes is a dynamite placed in my basement

I know it’s there on the pillars, never knowing when exactly it will detonate

I feel zest with incredible humility when I see your straight brow ridge

If I could transmit skin electricity without touches, I would tear a bit of my skin off

And, as for now, offer it instead of flowers.

14.10.17

I am not changing. I am becoming the one I know I am. 

Light in your well
It comes to me now swiftly
As if through fog
Gently walks in my eye
Sinking my sight

This light is a symptom
It is a symptom
Of the illness in our friendship
Which began when
You tried to force naive feelings
In a cage of lust
In yourself

You’re crossing the line
And it feels like when Eve ate the apple
-
You lost
Or did I lose first by looking into the well…?