All I've been chasing, besides you
and what was really worth it
were those un-blue purposes and some precious movements
in time, as I saw how the basic thoughts were within
as I took on the weighty burden of my being
and also the trust to partake then,
in all what I must have realized, in the forthright truth
and in that handful of vile white lies
as you had the by God's voice dictated fullfilment
and looked so needless to say unrestrained content
as I nevertheless -or better- in fact did not know you came
to your end, but, no,
no single one in Heaven can be by all means heaven sent,
so, I guess that sudden adieu was as a last goodbye
as the Holy Hands of our Creator meant
in the gesture of His splashing sighs

No, I guess to be heaven sent is an earthlings' task
but don't we all have our so called Heavens
as one of the thin lines next to what one referes to
as being the Torrid Zone, as that's hell
what surely cannot ever be a place, divine

And, like almost everyone sometimes I wished to be
the next best thing to be
although I'm just a mortal like you were, a lesser God
who realizes you completely faked you forgot me not
but, now, I see your grave as you're lying here six foot down,
as me, I'm even ahead of my next up that's leading
to another grim down,
as I asked you:
"why am I even blue,
as your indigo evening gown was that apparently too"
as tonight I saw those sparkles of love leave
this little town
saying goodbye to the next mayfly who's
anxiously spitting out the smile that became a frown
in this life that's not always worthy to live
when you know you're the next one balancing on the risky, touch-and-go cliff but, hey: "  maybe you say : I do wanna live"...?

" Please, Highest-Ranking Lord of Lords we do beg of You, don't You shove
our beloved opera singer into the cold, cold ground, ****** "....


...And, the ancient, blue moon that mystically lives high above the bar is slightly less intoxicated
than ourselves, but, we will not turn off the lights,
until it gets light again, or maybe not at all,
because such an artificial light
in our o, so befuddled eyes has something
quite beautiful about it we think,
especially if you are close friends who're a bit totally drunk
as an almost comic or- believe it or not-  a completely absurd duo of displaced persons like you and I,
or as a collection of very old, dusty barrel organs even,
that turn out to be way more toneless than
the almost dead opera singer at the end of the bar,
who was so called apprenticed to none other than
the great Caruso himself, although we still do realize that an unrealistic amount of vile lies can be sown everywhere in this country
(even by us, drinkers)


And, coincidence or not, the music
in our favorite local bar comes out of
an old scratchy vinyl record by the very same Caruso,
as it would drive out any culture barbarian,
just like we ourselves are eager to chase out
all of those witnesses of Jeovah with a big broom whenever they show up at our front doors,
although, we may be dumb
but not barbarians of culture, because listen,
that Caruso, well, that man, he does de facto sing better than a caged nightingale, when you hear him spread
his colorful wings in every note, in all those well- formed octaves,
in every masterfully perfomed song even,
although, his opera art can sometimes make us
so sleep drunk and that might be a nice feeling at times, but, it is at the same time one of those cliches
that you shouldn't try at home, kids!


Leave that to mature lordships like ourselves,
whom you tend to call scornfully, old men,
and, meanwhile please, let us have our love for music, and, if you would be so good, don't make
those painful jokes about our heartfelt weakness
for good old opera tunes...

Yes, we are the ones who truly do believe Caruso
was here....and if you don't believe this true story
then, come back tomorrow same time
when we'll be a little sober again
as well as ready to tell you a next white lie
as that's at least what you disrespectful people
from Mars think about it,
but, I say, just you read our drunken lips :


"******, to hell, because you are all a bunch
of ******* liars", as our beloved Caruso
is still alive ( and, we just bought him
a very special Italian beer) after which he probably will start singing vividly
as a classy and uttermost captivating nightingale......because the alleged, so called apprentice of the Master in our local bar
turned out to be none other than
the divine (Grand)Master Caruso himself...



- Salute!     Cheers !

Well, yes, she and also me were the unforeseen ones who used to walk past crossroads,
with the gladly given hands unmistakably glued together, but that was then, or should we say, way back then, when everything
still smelled intimately of hawthorn, red roses and valerian,
and, all of this in a sharp contrast to the stench that spread
the unrequested farewell, as it was unbearable in fact, even a little comparable maybe to a too heavy box filled with precious metal on the poor back of the lame, as you could call it also something
like an all but proverbial mistreatment that split the notion
of a misunderstood love in half, as it even mirrored what happened to that innocent elm in the forest of life, where a zealous candlelight that spoke of love was suddenly put out
by the wrong hands, but, yes, it was perhaps the hand
of this or the holy hand of another God that forgot us not in syllables of the un-blue,
when we see, now, how we possibly made it through...in the ending story of another me
and another you...


So, I guess nothing is actually what it appears to be,
as sometimes, yes, sometimes one better doesn't has to try
to believe in something like a realistic reality,
"unless very briefly, but in a fleeting moment",
a murmuring voice spoke softly to me,
when I saw how an outcast nomansland became the for us, by pulverizing time, elected destiny
in the no longer waltzing and worn down cliches
of a 'to be or a not to be' in a Shakespearean way
when the love that was ours slowly leaped as, yes, then, we both saw how it went away~

"We wouldn't give half a penny for our own thoughts" :
they softly spoke, while feeling kinda bored,
as, perhaps they were even a little lazy like gummy jellyfishes
on land, when they knew that they nonetheless must have been the curious ones who stared in a slowed up tempo at the ebony book cabinet,
while they were also the ones who didnt really know
but who actually did try to guess which books
were installed there like a bunch of paper soldiers
waiting for better heights,
as the moon was a not so accidental,
bluish celestial body that shone
through the open windows of the closed house,
and, o, yes they mirrored the impressive impression it left behind,
before they watched themselves when grabbing a random heavy book out of the big closet
with the intention of ridding this mysterious book of being unread as the face of something like a future time,
however, the first few sentences they dug through
were so **** tiring, so sleep-inducing, even, that they must have decided to put the boresome book aside into an eternity, before they started reading the actual shape of the moon
as it beamed them blue, until they whirled down together on the red sofa that even glued them a little later down on a soft four-poster bed in dreamland,
that supposedly brought them a dream that read:
Tomorrow, New Day, Tomorrow, New Chances
if Allowed By God, but tell me, what did it even mattered to them or to Him, as if it even could hve concerned a gruesome thing like their very last song in life to sing?

You're welcome in heaven
said the sweet voice that we heard somewhere wandering in the
not so nearby distance, as we felt
just like a welcomed house martin nestling at halt,
in the splendor of an early spring, when the living hours,
which turned out to be only a collection of at least fifty-nine plus one or even more minutes made the bright day into what a man or a woman does commit to be a perishable day, with nevertheless nothing worth mentioning in the footsteps of the leaping time,
although sometimes what we miss dearly can in fact be the same as what we already have,
even if we don't really realize it, as it's even only when this reality becomes a thing of the past that we seriously do miss and miss,  as if it concerns a who or a what that disappeared in this life, in this hated and even beloved existence that perhaps turns out to be a circle (vicious or not)
but we're once in a while grateful for the time given to us, as thanks is perhaps more than a feeling or even more than a six-letter word that seals the importance of a progress
that tells us how we in fact of the manner really seem to feel today, before time murders us with a cardboard sword when we go to meet Mister God
to then try to complete what the complexity of life
has perhaps completed when it does **** us in such a good way that it can only makes us feel a little more than just alive but when we say forever goodbye to the moon, the soundtrack of our lifes seems to have been nothing more or less than a soft and divine headphone song from the Above,
as that's yet,  maybe another halt at rest
that only shows us that life is just a pea- brained test
as the house martin is humming, now : "East, West,
home is the only best"...

I.
'I believe 'tis, me, the creative one who woke up in the early morn,
as I was waiting on that language child
in the paper skin of a fresh free verse
or even on that new up-to- date love poem to be born
as I then saw how the collection of those overcasted letters
formed some real vital words but, please, do tell me, where did they all actually go,
before I truly saw them evolving into those somehow fateful sentences
that nevertheless turned my existing ups into everything but that what one calls a minor low

II.
So, yes there I was sitting and scribing as I saw myself writing in the present sunlight
about the splendor, that’s the miracle of love,
about how that same and irreplaceable love can lie in the openmindedness of brain and heart,
or even in the sometimes slow reapprochement that cannot make togetherness ever part,
as well as I saw it in all the beautiful things we’re in fact able to confess, before the sudden birth of what we see as a death, that's maybe the end as 'tis even nothing less

III.
I guess it was then, that I had the God dictated thought that 'tis
the enigmatic smile of the mystery
that merrily runs to all practicing romantics and aspiring lovers to be
as I also had to write down how they can even in an electrifying way run to the ownmost core of love
and only love itself, in the clarity of their un-muted footsteps
that I imagined vividly as they were loudly stepping towards the rare five-star romance novel that was resting
on that packed antique book shelf

IV.
Yes, I even had to confess to this yellowed, piece of scrap paper
that 'tis in fact that same miracle of love that does tell us when the battle is over and done
as I saw how it was making way for a welcome halt at rest,
for me to sleep then over in the open arms of the loved one that my deep living love by all means does know the best

V.
Thus, I think maybe every single miracle bears a name deeply hidden
in what the Lord created as being our precious time
as well as sometimes 'tis de facto better to wait a bit than to rush
or to take that too wild jump in the wide distance that resembles the miracle of hope,
that echoes a true love, divine

VI.
And, yes then I wrote how her soft pink lips locked with that mouth of me, in a thousand luscious kisses better
than any existing, poetic exercise
or even better than a perfect rhyme, ya see,
as I do guess that new beginning
was without doubt something I had to call the end
of the poetic line, untill I saw one sow the sweet seeds
of a dozen eternities to maybe always be called the closest and literal love of mine....