The purest sexuality is not being
left excited by one’s ******
like a forbidden fruit
or found
in metaphors
via
allusions
of one’s wild
aphrodisiac breath
or resembling it phones/melody
during ******* in the bed;

it is the moment of philias
and events
that leave you finitely burnt from the inside, reforming
you and leaving you anew
for burning again

And humans aren’t its source

they’re just its vessel.

Just like poems kiss knowing:
no lips in flesh will be able to replace them for you.

The same goes with the choice of a human language
till we’re still
here.

Zegar popuszczony. Drewno w deski popękane.
Twoje dziecię po raz enty leży w sofie, jakby nieznane.
Czy widziałeś jakże gołębice są dziś rozszlajałe?
Białe a wyprute, jakbyś coś z żeber z alabastru na wióry mi
pasem skórzanym przerobił.
Pogardą jakże ci koniak a nie me oczy ambulansem!
Wargi sąsiada jak posąg dawidowy a nie me wyżebrane!
A sen nas dwojga na strychu już tylko we krwi coś znaczy?
Mętny widok asów, pików czy trefli bez serca twej „królowej” spił cię
i na wiersz w popielniczce przerobił?

- Ty co stoisz dumna, niby poharatana,
nie wiem jak siebie samego odpędzić.
Jakiś ból liliowy, jakiś pieniądz w twarz córce rzucony,
ekstaza z barw i szkarłatu przed oczyma już tylko
do anestezji się sprowadza.
Bo, powiedz, czymże trzask twych żeber, o potomku zapomnienie,
jak nie chwilą gorzką małego goździka
co zaraz nagle w przełyku zaniknie?
Po cóż pierścień zaręczynowy, czesne, ognisko Hestii,
śmiech twój platynowy
jeśli stoi przyszłość jak twój posag stracona?
Ten salon, ten pas, ten orgazm, każda sprawa lichwy ci warta.

- Bez wykładania ci na ławę „przynajmniej ja nie...”,
chociaż stanę ci wyzwaniem i ostatnim tchem
jaki marmur mych kości coś jeszcze się broni
i spytam, nie wycofam:
Ten ból, ten skowyt co mówisz, jak czyn schowany Nazarejczyka,
u stóp w wodzie twych pracujący,
czy znać ci dać co przekazał przez wsze narody?

- Naprzód, wypatruję

- Co na Ziemi związałeś, w niebie się nie odstanie,

                jak puls w żyle ci zostanę

                     choćbyś martwy i go wydrapał

                                na pozór.

Ingredients:
    • 1 springtime
    • 1 brain, bruised and ripe for the picking
    • As many hours as can be held in your arms
    • A handful of mantras that got you precisely nowhere, e.g. "this too shall pass"

1) Before declaring yourself insane, remember you are not immune to your own humanity and every emotion seems as though you were the first to discover it. There is, ironically, a word for this - qualia - meaning however elaborate the description, words alone cannot replicate an experience (a yellow sky; a minor key). You are as much an explorer as every other living being, and these are communal journeys taken in solitude.

2) Acknowledge that when you feel blue, it is the colour of forget-me-nots. Unbolt your door, against your better judgement. Spend time among the flowers, knowing this is what the earth is capable of. This is what it creates of its own volition. Wander until no longer threatened, but comforted in the presence of beauty. It is their cycle of blooming and wilting that makes you kindred spirits and—at least this season—you're in friendly company.

3) Notice your conscious hunt for reasons to feel alienated, undecided on whether you are possessed or defective. Recall that for all the nights spent on self-interrogation, indulging in sweeping guesses and bolting your door shut as a service to humanity, you've found nothing of significance. Consider what this may mean. (For best results, do this under the sun. You will sit beside a shadow that has seen enough to understand, and wordlessly pledged its lifetime to you. Do not take its loyalty for granted.)

3) Try to reconcile your hatred of being looked at with your burning, inescapable need to be acknowledged. You will fail. Repeatedly. Keep trying, keep failing, and treat it as a success you've yet to fully comprehend.

4) When it seems as though self-acceptance means turning a blind eye to every wrong you've ever committed, or waving a dismissive hand to all the methods in which you can wound people, re-write a definition that makes sense to you. So long as your hands can wield a knife, they can hold a plant stem or a human cheek, and that is your permission to exist.

5) Repeat until the word 't-m-rr-w' doesn't desperately warrant censorship and you can look into an hourglass without the need to smash it open.

Hindsight, hallowed be thy name.

All I've got is luggage... luggage!
My God! Turn around; find my comrades slumped under the weights strapped to their spine!
Limping, bearing, burdened by non-negotiables while the High Court of Good Karma takes collective sabbatical —
and this knapsack of shame, I've partial credit in filling.

Grey handkerchief, original sin:
one. single. suckerpunch. and my fists are raised forever,
begging for the chance to swing and prove my own strength
— supposing the opportunity never fell into my lap — I'd said "**** it," packed a

hundred grams of bushy brushed-out curls, stop-sign red
fifty grams of lips to match (uniform too, now I think about it)
fifty grams of raccoon eyelids and coloured-in brows
hundred grams of halls of mirrors, circus-attraction Alice
lose a hundred/gain a hundred/repeat til dizzy
hundred grams of ******-in stomach, eyes averted in changing rooms
wigs by the armful — that's three — nom-de-plumes thrown in gratis
(it's only a journey to the rest of my life anyway, I'll need them,
alternative being cinematic debut as Myself)
hundred performances to imaginary audiences, less-than-stellar reviews
hundred grams of overwhelming then underwhelming "on purpose"
hundred grams of laughing off any belief in potential
hundred grams of scratch-marks and verbal fountains of venom
hundred grams of giving almostneverquite as good as I got
hundred grams of group-work alone thank ****(?)
hundred biro-holes stabbed in martyred pencil cases
feral in broad daylight spoiling for a fight
kilo of aiming for 'scary' and landing on 'strange'
kilo of being third to make good company a crowd
kilo of taking sixteen years to find Her
— Shadowboxer Fiona, rhythms invisible, catharsis in art —
hundred doodled superstitious evil-eyes in the ruled margins
hundred laments over the inability to provide a better future

(removed one by one whenever I think the future's mutable)

that one glimpse of white lightning in a violet storm
one single minute's pause to look over my shoulder
scarce-to-zero progress made
endless miles to go
breathless body soaked to the bone
and this useless! *******! bag! of Everything and nothing of value!!
mansions worth of loathing yet there's nothing to lose
did I decide that because I can't change the world, I can change nothing at all
(instead throwing darts at reflections/emotional *****/kicking stray dogs as a full-time hobby)?

O clarity so saccharine that I cannot be angered by the wasted years
only because THERE ARE MORE TO COME
I take it
   off my shoulder,
the first kind action I have spared myself in time unguessable
empty
     the
        contents...
   really
    air it out...
and trudge on
    unaccompanied.
The world's enough of an uphill climb.