michal-shilor - Hello Poetry

it's your turn. go. "in muddy footprints i see faces that Picasso would have drawn, in ***** floors and unwashed dishes lay the lies and promises i told myself in backwards orders, with misplaced eyes, glasses, mouths. and now, my turn's arrived, and i've nothing to confess! point taken. i don't know what it is. it's Picasso in my mind. Van Gogh: self-portrait. missing parts, misplaced parts, misinterpretation of an education too-well carried out. dirt piles up and i play, a little girl amused, like when i learned about maps, navigation, topography in sandboxes. i was so much older than a little girl and yet i still belong in sandboxes! there i can pretend to be Picasso, there i can call this 'art.' and i can't call it art anywhere else because it's not, it's not artistic in the real world, and there, there exists no ideal. only confusion. but of another sort- not the kid described on these pages. my pages. my turn? i've not much to say, not that would mean anything to you, anyway. in cloudy visions i see smoke that Picasso could have breathed, in, out, breath. in, out, smoke. his smoke must have been so full of art! oh! what is art!" you'd get along here, just fine, you're friendly enough, i can tell. "so it's my turn? i wouldn't get along anywhere, no, i wouldn't last a day without him, but that's a different life. a life so far away, built like castles in sandboxes on playgrounds that wish they were the beach, wish to hear the ocean, wish to feel the waves, and. yet. that is art, is it not? beauty in the wishes of personified concepts. the life that lives in another time, (where do i belong?) but i don't remember and i am so tired of 'i'! oh. no. in shattered windows i see accidents, injuries, deaths. but some of it is beautiful. you must think i'm sick, sadistic, too influenced by art. i assure you i won't cut off my ear but it's very possible i'll dream in figures misaligned. missing eyebrows, misplaced lashes. bifocals keep me from speaking clearly, fogged with every exhalation of smoke: 1920's Hollywood actresses, mascara too thick, lipstick too red, cancer sticks between slender fingers. tap. ashes fall. in ashes on linoleum floors, flourescent lighting, i see- never mind. you'll think i'm more dangerously sadistic than is safe, at this point. i don't see anything at all, no linoleum, non flourescents to reflect your muddy footprints, no Picasso faces this time around. in muddy footprints i see... faces misaligned, i see... wheels in overdrive. and you say i'll get along there, 'just fine'! go. it's your turn. i hope i haven't scared you away. there's not much time before another day."

0

Mar 22, 2014

Mar 22, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC

picasso

it's your turn. go. "in muddy footprints i see faces that Picasso would have drawn, in ***** floors and unwashed dishes lay the lies and promises i told myself in backwards orders, with misplaced eyes, glasses, mouths. and now, my turn's arrived, and i've nothing to confess! point taken. i don't know what it is. it's Picasso in my mind. Van Gogh: self-portrait. missing parts, misplaced parts, misinterpretation of an education too-well carried out. dirt piles up and i play, a little girl amused, like when i learned about maps, navigation, topography in sandboxes. i was so much older than a little girl and yet i still belong in sandboxes! there i can pretend to be Picasso, there i can call this 'art.' and i can't call it art anywhere else because it's not, it's not artistic in the real world, and there, there exists no ideal. only confusion. but of another sort- not the kid described on these pages. my pages. my turn? i've not much to say, not that would mean anything to you, anyway. in cloudy visions i see smoke that Picasso could have breathed, in, out, breath. in, out, smoke. his smoke must have been so full of art! oh! what is art!" you'd get along here, just fine, you're friendly enough, i can tell. "so it's my turn? i wouldn't get along anywhere, no, i wouldn't last a day without him, but that's a different life. a life so far away, built like castles in sandboxes on playgrounds that wish they were the beach, wish to hear the ocean, wish to feel the waves, and. yet. that is art, is it not? beauty in the wishes of personified concepts. the life that lives in another time, (where do i belong?) but i don't remember and i am so tired of 'i'! oh. no. in shattered windows i see accidents, injuries, deaths. but some of it is beautiful. you must think i'm sick, sadistic, too influenced by art. i assure you i won't cut off my ear but it's very possible i'll dream in figures misaligned. missing eyebrows, misplaced lashes. bifocals keep me from speaking clearly, fogged with every exhalation of smoke: 1920's Hollywood actresses, mascara too thick, lipstick too red, cancer sticks between slender fingers. tap. ashes fall. in ashes on linoleum floors, flourescent lighting, i see- never mind. you'll think i'm more dangerously sadistic than is safe, at this point. i don't see anything at all, no linoleum, non flourescents to reflect your muddy footprints, no Picasso faces this time around. in muddy footprints i see... faces misaligned, i see... wheels in overdrive. and you say i'll get along there, 'just fine'! go. it's your turn. i hope i haven't scared you away. there's not much time before another day."

131

how we cried how cold it was outside how we let the weather bite our skin how nothing mattered anymore how the days kept happening and nights existed and how slumber didn't how we surfed in a sea of familiar eyes with the same miserable expressions how there was alcohol and we drowned ourselves in it and in each other's spaces

0

Mar 14, 2014

Mar 14, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC

7

how we cried how cold it was outside how we let the weather bite our skin how nothing mattered anymore how the days kept happening and nights existed and how slumber didn't how we surfed in a sea of familiar eyes with the same miserable expressions how there was alcohol and we drowned ourselves in it and in each other's spaces

11

you walked in so late at night and didn’t even ask for water (you never drink anything although i always offer), fell asleep in my arms and rolled away without my noticing, with the dawn silently slipped away like you said you would and i pretended to still be sleeping though i said i would wake from your stirring. when i awoke i saw your imprint and thought how unfitting we are, and still i missed your presence, your smooth skin and wounded fingers

0

Feb 16, 2014

Feb 16, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC

late

you walked in so late at night and didn’t even ask for water (you never drink anything although i always offer), fell asleep in my arms and rolled away without my noticing, with the dawn silently slipped away like you said you would and i pretended to still be sleeping though i said i would wake from your stirring. when i awoke i saw your imprint and thought how unfitting we are, and still i missed your presence, your smooth skin and wounded fingers

12

the raindrops on my windshield look like shards of broken glass, sharp to the touch when reflected on by all the other blinding headlights hers was a black truck, wet in the rain, looking rough and **** in the sweaty love- making sort of way i thought about how she had written me that note, a secret, and how she had torn it up and then thrown it out after i read it. It was a whisper, that secret was, a whisper of the love and trust she still harbored for me. maybe we won't fade away, but theses are the reasons i'll cry if we do.

0

Feb 15, 2014

Feb 15, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC

rainrumour

the raindrops on my windshield look like shards of broken glass, sharp to the touch when reflected on by all the other blinding headlights hers was a black truck, wet in the rain, looking rough and **** in the sweaty love- making sort of way i thought about how she had written me that note, a secret, and how she had torn it up and then thrown it out after i read it. It was a whisper, that secret was, a whisper of the love and trust she still harbored for me. maybe we won't fade away, but theses are the reasons i'll cry if we do.

14

I stroke a brand new page and wonder if rage or plight or a flight out of this age will overtake these white spaces between blue lines, wonder if I’ve anything meaningful to tell, like what I think about politics or **** hips or chapped lips in this winter’s wrath. I’m on this path, you see, to try and gain a different perspective, to learn a different language, to try and send a message instead of doing the usual clichés about love and death and cleaning up an alcoholic mess and everyone we know has aids but we like *** and we hate each other’s different colors and pretend to be emotional, you’ve heard this line before: cry or bleed tears or blood through words or ink onto pages or.. what.ever. I’m guilty, too, of course, it’s true: the one who points it out is guilty most, but now I’m tired of being boring, tired of not telling a story, let’s… try… this: my name is: michal. I am: white twenty one female bisexual jewish a traveller open parentheses : a stranger (close parentheses) I am: Sitting in a room full of black Africans in Africa a stranger, young and white and interested, and suddenly, it strikes me: c o m f o r t a b l e . sitting in a room full of bl- no. we are human beings being taught to see in colors and in genders being taught to judge a person by the accent by the nation by the actions of the past five minutes by the plan for the next three by the chemicals or plants he puts into his body but what about personality? I am: sitting in a room full of: POETS. or people who want to hear poetry, and though on the outside I’m so… white – no, different, on the inside I’m so… warm, feels right, so not distant. for instance: you get what it is to let words string themselves on your necklace and choke you till you’re breathless and make you beg for more, you’re masochistic like me, like that, you get what it is to close your eyes and let each others’ words overtake you like going under a wave in the Indian Ocean like being swept into the eye of a tornado like hiding under three blankets in the dead of winter like turning the engine off but keeping the battery on and parking with dad in the front to let Pink Floyd finish playing Wish You Were Here before we move to open the car door, you get what it’s like to open a blank page and let the pen use your fingers in ways you never knew lingered through the smoke of the incense in your brain, the drops of the tap of the thoughts your mind thought it turned off, those last few breaths you never knew existed, exist in your head, exhausted, I am: walking out of this segregated room and into the next part of this interesting test where I find brainwashed white folks brainwashing my mind and instantly I’m watching every black guy that walks by ‘cause this is the most dangerous city in the world and those coloreds and those blacks commit all the crimes so lock the door and close the windows and watch your back and clutch your bag tight even in the daytime and do a double take a triple take and never talk to strangers you never know who’s a neighbour or who’s checkin’ out his next victim ‘cause he’s been evicted out of society’s boundaries, out of the space God made for good people, fair people, people like us who know how to watch out. Wait! something smells funny, not really funny: sad. we must be mad to buy into this it’s making us crazy and angry and when was the last time you smiled? I am: smiling, thinking about that last time, I was in a room full of poets and there was magic happening and we were black and we were white and we were re(a)d all over, we were blue with ink stains on our fingers, we were pink with our vision of life, we were yellow ‘cause the sun was paintin’ us bright, permanently green from the grass on our denim, brown from the earth that rooted our spirits back to our cores, orange from the flames of our words, purple like the royalty that shined from our souls, we were: rainbows, black and white are just multitudes of rainbows, after all, simply shades like the ones we use to cover our windows out of fear of the next break-in, just shades, just shadows, remnants of painful pasts that we must avoid in our bright & colourful futures – if we let them be so. let me catch my breath, I haven’t been so out of it since that lunar eclipse that lit up the galaxies, let me catch my breath, my death, my breath, my goodness catch me now before I trip on your hiccups before I slip on your scattered makeup before I slip on your shallow skirts and dresses, catch me before I choke on your grey flavourless cooking before i regress to the levels of stress that lead to all our health deterioration our self-poisoning medication catch me so I die with a pen in my hand, righteous and trying to deliver an emotional message of love, of coexistence, I forgot to mention I am: Israeli, plagued by hatred in another story, by violence unnecessary like painting over to hide the rotten parts, like pain in modern art, let’s just lie here together add a little cliché, underneath the stars, close your eyes, feel the dark, hear our breaths move the air and start a steady chain reaction, a journey towards a butterfly effect (how powerful the breath is!) let’s call this art.

0

Feb 3, 2014

Feb 3, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC

coloring books

I stroke a brand new page and wonder if rage or plight or a flight out of this age will overtake these white spaces between blue lines, wonder if I’ve anything meaningful to tell, like what I think about politics or **** hips or chapped lips in this winter’s wrath. I’m on this path, you see, to try and gain a different perspective, to learn a different language, to try and send a message instead of doing the usual clichés about love and death and cleaning up an alcoholic mess and everyone we know has aids but we like *** and we hate each other’s different colors and pretend to be emotional, you’ve heard this line before: cry or bleed tears or blood through words or ink onto pages or.. what.ever. I’m guilty, too, of course, it’s true: the one who points it out is guilty most, but now I’m tired of being boring, tired of not telling a story, let’s… try… this: my name is: michal. I am: white twenty one female bisexual jewish a traveller open parentheses : a stranger (close parentheses) I am: Sitting in a room full of black Africans in Africa a stranger, young and white and interested, and suddenly, it strikes me: c o m f o r t a b l e . sitting in a room full of bl- no. we are human beings being taught to see in colors and in genders being taught to judge a person by the accent by the nation by the actions of the past five minutes by the plan for the next three by the chemicals or plants he puts into his body but what about personality? I am: sitting in a room full of: POETS. or people who want to hear poetry, and though on the outside I’m so… white – no, different, on the inside I’m so… warm, feels right, so not distant. for instance: you get what it is to let words string themselves on your necklace and choke you till you’re breathless and make you beg for more, you’re masochistic like me, like that, you get what it is to close your eyes and let each others’ words overtake you like going under a wave in the Indian Ocean like being swept into the eye of a tornado like hiding under three blankets in the dead of winter like turning the engine off but keeping the battery on and parking with dad in the front to let Pink Floyd finish playing Wish You Were Here before we move to open the car door, you get what it’s like to open a blank page and let the pen use your fingers in ways you never knew lingered through the smoke of the incense in your brain, the drops of the tap of the thoughts your mind thought it turned off, those last few breaths you never knew existed, exist in your head, exhausted, I am: walking out of this segregated room and into the next part of this interesting test where I find brainwashed white folks brainwashing my mind and instantly I’m watching every black guy that walks by ‘cause this is the most dangerous city in the world and those coloreds and those blacks commit all the crimes so lock the door and close the windows and watch your back and clutch your bag tight even in the daytime and do a double take a triple take and never talk to strangers you never know who’s a neighbour or who’s checkin’ out his next victim ‘cause he’s been evicted out of society’s boundaries, out of the space God made for good people, fair people, people like us who know how to watch out. Wait! something smells funny, not really funny: sad. we must be mad to buy into this it’s making us crazy and angry and when was the last time you smiled? I am: smiling, thinking about that last time, I was in a room full of poets and there was magic happening and we were black and we were white and we were re(a)d all over, we were blue with ink stains on our fingers, we were pink with our vision of life, we were yellow ‘cause the sun was paintin’ us bright, permanently green from the grass on our denim, brown from the earth that rooted our spirits back to our cores, orange from the flames of our words, purple like the royalty that shined from our souls, we were: rainbows, black and white are just multitudes of rainbows, after all, simply shades like the ones we use to cover our windows out of fear of the next break-in, just shades, just shadows, remnants of painful pasts that we must avoid in our bright & colourful futures – if we let them be so. let me catch my breath, I haven’t been so out of it since that lunar eclipse that lit up the galaxies, let me catch my breath, my death, my breath, my goodness catch me now before I trip on your hiccups before I slip on your scattered makeup before I slip on your shallow skirts and dresses, catch me before I choke on your grey flavourless cooking before i regress to the levels of stress that lead to all our health deterioration our self-poisoning medication catch me so I die with a pen in my hand, righteous and trying to deliver an emotional message of love, of coexistence, I forgot to mention I am: Israeli, plagued by hatred in another story, by violence unnecessary like painting over to hide the rotten parts, like pain in modern art, let’s just lie here together add a little cliché, underneath the stars, close your eyes, feel the dark, hear our breaths move the air and start a steady chain reaction, a journey towards a butterfly effect (how powerful the breath is!) let’s call this art.

156

because even if we say nothing and do nothing more than lie beside each other, the space between us speaks, our bodies (eyes closed, thighs close) speak for us, exchange vibrations we can't see through an atmosphere we exhale into, in- hale out of, where vibrations of our music run on playgrounds unseen and build houses invisible upon which we grow together and apart

0

Jan 28, 2014

Jan 28, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC

why i sleep with you

because even if we say nothing and do nothing more than lie beside each other, the space between us speaks, our bodies (eyes closed, thighs close) speak for us, exchange vibrations we can't see through an atmosphere we exhale into, in- hale out of, where vibrations of our music run on playgrounds unseen and build houses invisible upon which we grow together and apart

20

i we were such a storm, for being simply seventeen; we were young and we were younger (but so sincere under skies of summer, under clouds of winter and leaves of fall. leaves of, fall, of, fall), i, falling through the rainbows, you, leaving for the spring. the body is fragile ii in a silent home we speak, fumbling for the words we mean to utter, stuttering logic into a new philosophy. we share ideas; i fall. i think you do too but it is not the time to find out. i fall, but i know it is not the true descent: that which will arrive when we are both above enough to require a cushioned landing

0

Jan 25, 2014

Jan 25, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC

fall (six months)

i we were such a storm, for being simply seventeen; we were young and we were younger (but so sincere under skies of summer, under clouds of winter and leaves of fall. leaves of, fall, of, fall), i, falling through the rainbows, you, leaving for the spring. the body is fragile ii in a silent home we speak, fumbling for the words we mean to utter, stuttering logic into a new philosophy. we share ideas; i fall. i think you do too but it is not the time to find out. i fall, but i know it is not the true descent: that which will arrive when we are both above enough to require a cushioned landing

25

i must admit i've missed the touch of pen against recycled paper, recycling thoughts and sensing coarse unity against the edge of my right-most finger and its adjacent palm-side. it is with somber truth from which I can not hide that I shout for you to r e a d my w o r d s; i know not why, but these are my offerings in such a life;: all i can honor for a god or a friendship or the strangeness of sequences, all i can serve as a side to my heart. at times i wish i were more blunt, and at times you throw a glance which shuns my person into shyness, these s e a r c h i n g e y e s run-a-marathon while you look away, seeking a face of interest. it is silly, on my mind's part, for even if we find a point of interest, it will remain visual; these teeth, this tongue- we forget our purpose when it is most desired. as it stands, i am a bird alone. no, i try but remember not the last time i took off with another: i am single, i am solitary, i am contradictory conflicts . through contradictions words stand strong and i will always have you, even in death I will write you, even in life at its fullest, apologies fly like fireworks; my obsession with my premature death is leaking onto pure word-pages and suddenly the sanctity of poetry is tainted but it is looming here, in this atmosphere, this knowledge of the end of life before it's started; and that is why danger is seductive and adventures are a weakness, and that is why: I love with all my soul.

0

Jan 12, 2014

Jan 12, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC

bird

i must admit i've missed the touch of pen against recycled paper, recycling thoughts and sensing coarse unity against the edge of my right-most finger and its adjacent palm-side. it is with somber truth from which I can not hide that I shout for you to r e a d my w o r d s; i know not why, but these are my offerings in such a life;: all i can honor for a god or a friendship or the strangeness of sequences, all i can serve as a side to my heart. at times i wish i were more blunt, and at times you throw a glance which shuns my person into shyness, these s e a r c h i n g e y e s run-a-marathon while you look away, seeking a face of interest. it is silly, on my mind's part, for even if we find a point of interest, it will remain visual; these teeth, this tongue- we forget our purpose when it is most desired. as it stands, i am a bird alone. no, i try but remember not the last time i took off with another: i am single, i am solitary, i am contradictory conflicts . through contradictions words stand strong and i will always have you, even in death I will write you, even in life at its fullest, apologies fly like fireworks; my obsession with my premature death is leaking onto pure word-pages and suddenly the sanctity of poetry is tainted but it is looming here, in this atmosphere, this knowledge of the end of life before it's started; and that is why danger is seductive and adventures are a weakness, and that is why: I love with all my soul.

45

you feel pianos speaking to your fingers and i'm afraid to let you slip through mine.. unbearably bare in slow motion, first our center and then the edges, your lips soften mine. warmth: inside, and out, the energy that travels from the first kiss through my body, through my abnormally beating heart, my sensitive stomach. i hear words in my mind and you, melodies, and this is so scary i'm ready to cry. precious as we, here, are, now, i manage to think how i'm thinking all the wrong things, how i always manage to feel so insecure at times like these, how i can so easily f a l l in love with you, how i shouldn't because i n e e d w a l l s , because mine are missing, how it's too soon to show you these words of mine, how god laughs at me so, now, here, how am I always so crazy, so swept so easily? i greatly wish my words were great because in describing us here, now, i am losing my senses, i am losing my thought patterns, i am afraid of my strong intimacy, i miss you! (do you allow me to exaggerate so?) how Strange how this all came about, how mystical the world is, how wonderful that you, too, believe, that we, together, naïve, i wait for wiser words, b r e a t h e (my worried thoughts pierce such calm, calculate the ways i fear of letting such beautiful precious moment: your lips in slow motion, your eyes with truthful intensity – slips through my fingers: sand so delicate i'm not worthy at all..).. wiser words do not arrive. it is me and you, here, now, and my heart which breathes as if it's drowned, and melodies i wish i could hear from your soul, because this irrational pain from such unbelievable joy makes no clear sense in my mind, my eyes, my body, my mind surrender to sleep, surrounded by your body, your arms, your breath on my neck, (this for the first time in a while i let one get so close), i sleep softly, safely, i must have cried in such dreams that night, and when i (frequently) awoke (momentarily), i felt myself smiling although the words were climbing and i, silly, now i think, i did not stir to write them down, for fear of your disturbance, and please, when i read you these words at some later moment of ours, if this is too much for you to grasp, please, dismiss my thoughts as exaggerations, as no reason to slip through my longing fingers, because they want to be with your piano'd ones and they are most afraid of: losing (again) because they were once told (when they left a love): it is only once you've lost all, that one may truly be free [and they are tired of such empty freedom]

0

Jan 12, 2014

Jan 12, 2014 at 10:06 AM UTC

keys

you feel pianos speaking to your fingers and i'm afraid to let you slip through mine.. unbearably bare in slow motion, first our center and then the edges, your lips soften mine. warmth: inside, and out, the energy that travels from the first kiss through my body, through my abnormally beating heart, my sensitive stomach. i hear words in my mind and you, melodies, and this is so scary i'm ready to cry. precious as we, here, are, now, i manage to think how i'm thinking all the wrong things, how i always manage to feel so insecure at times like these, how i can so easily f a l l in love with you, how i shouldn't because i n e e d w a l l s , because mine are missing, how it's too soon to show you these words of mine, how god laughs at me so, now, here, how am I always so crazy, so swept so easily? i greatly wish my words were great because in describing us here, now, i am losing my senses, i am losing my thought patterns, i am afraid of my strong intimacy, i miss you! (do you allow me to exaggerate so?) how Strange how this all came about, how mystical the world is, how wonderful that you, too, believe, that we, together, naïve, i wait for wiser words, b r e a t h e (my worried thoughts pierce such calm, calculate the ways i fear of letting such beautiful precious moment: your lips in slow motion, your eyes with truthful intensity – slips through my fingers: sand so delicate i'm not worthy at all..).. wiser words do not arrive. it is me and you, here, now, and my heart which breathes as if it's drowned, and melodies i wish i could hear from your soul, because this irrational pain from such unbelievable joy makes no clear sense in my mind, my eyes, my body, my mind surrender to sleep, surrounded by your body, your arms, your breath on my neck, (this for the first time in a while i let one get so close), i sleep softly, safely, i must have cried in such dreams that night, and when i (frequently) awoke (momentarily), i felt myself smiling although the words were climbing and i, silly, now i think, i did not stir to write them down, for fear of your disturbance, and please, when i read you these words at some later moment of ours, if this is too much for you to grasp, please, dismiss my thoughts as exaggerations, as no reason to slip through my longing fingers, because they want to be with your piano'd ones and they are most afraid of: losing (again) because they were once told (when they left a love): it is only once you've lost all, that one may truly be free [and they are tired of such empty freedom]

90

your screaming cigarette smoke rises and i, in anticipation, know not what to make of you and your- my! my misinterpretations of you. your exhale clouds my kingdom and i am walking with intention, trying not to mention that my bloodstream is swimming with- (drowning in)- the friction between us. soft-spoken? a shady spectacle, that cigarette is, exploited by your splendor… bear with me! I’m baring my soul, your spirit- [make me drunk on your truth!] i know it- (tho’ hidden by soft petals, pollution—{your body}) – exists, it is brimming, is dancing at the edge of your smoke, (your exhale clouds) my vision, …, my apocalyptic intimacy: pure, untainted thought shared in mind- (no words required)- a b s o l u t e l y g r o u n d e d ! your inhale, (i watch you dying!), you’re still alive, my (cough) inhale, I’m dying!- you’re watching and I’m still alive, on the brink of chaos, i watch, on the brink of perfection, i write you with fragility, but speak in harsh ironies- you do affect me, i regard(less of) your opinions, the ones clouded by the ocean of your self-imposed poison, (this catastrophe of your tidal tombstone). condescending? i told you, no, i- i just speak in mundane repetition of scarlet lies, mundane motifs in this life. It’s just that… (no. never mind.)

0

Jan 11, 2014

Jan 11, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC

your screaming cigarette

your screaming cigarette smoke rises and i, in anticipation, know not what to make of you and your- my! my misinterpretations of you. your exhale clouds my kingdom and i am walking with intention, trying not to mention that my bloodstream is swimming with- (drowning in)- the friction between us. soft-spoken? a shady spectacle, that cigarette is, exploited by your splendor… bear with me! I’m baring my soul, your spirit- [make me drunk on your truth!] i know it- (tho’ hidden by soft petals, pollution—{your body}) – exists, it is brimming, is dancing at the edge of your smoke, (your exhale clouds) my vision, …, my apocalyptic intimacy: pure, untainted thought shared in mind- (no words required)- a b s o l u t e l y g r o u n d e d ! your inhale, (i watch you dying!), you’re still alive, my (cough) inhale, I’m dying!- you’re watching and I’m still alive, on the brink of chaos, i watch, on the brink of perfection, i write you with fragility, but speak in harsh ironies- you do affect me, i regard(less of) your opinions, the ones clouded by the ocean of your self-imposed poison, (this catastrophe of your tidal tombstone). condescending? i told you, no, i- i just speak in mundane repetition of scarlet lies, mundane motifs in this life. It’s just that… (no. never mind.)

72