If you ever see me
run over.
kicked.
bleeding.
blurring.
on the ground.
incoherently.
something wrong with me.
or that I’m not conscious,

don’t look for my breath
or heartbeat,
don’t reach for a phone to call
an ambulance that will drive me
to the hospice
to which the world throws you in
when your window sill climbing,
barefoot walking
in the dirt rolling
like child with freeing thoughts drooling
or law-culture breaking
gets too much
of a crime for them.
don’t ask me if I see still fine
your two or four fingers
yet look for the tears in my eyes.

For if I don’t have them anymore
and won’t get myself then or ever again
to truly cry,
it is only then
that you’ll know
I stopped fighting,
I died,
I ultimately ***** myself
and I forgot
there is more Beyond.

and without that
my existence isn’t worth
looking for the pulse
anymore.

I will not be worth
of seeing stars
as a boy
without sanity
or glasses
anymore.

...

I swear on you
upon all
that
heed.

Fascination in obscure
words or sensations
in my deep states,
seemingly insecure or even uncomfortable concepts to some
yet holding a great enigmatic eloquence
in elegance
when looked at through
a different prism of the crystal.
I could even say that my
Deep Stateness
is of the copper-dark
radiating scarlet paired
with lilac,
inky blue
and grey mist
at the Lighthouse Keeper’s shift
when all stories come alive
and what’s seemingly real
turns feeble.
An example word of such would be: “Incalescent”
or
“Evanescent”.
It holds that feeling
independently
from its cognitively
given definition.

Astrality, to me,
if you’d like to ask as a help
for placing it,
may be most probably
the aforesaid
Deep Stateness married
with the presence of My Lover, otherworldly consciences
without words
(as if I were some astral being
embodied
and aware of its misbelonging
to this world
and my moderated
female body)
and my Fernweh
for my Home.
It’s also that Phronemophiling,
like a thing greater
than getting high on drugs.
It is also my endearment
at my antics
or getting Philosophy
in me and what I read
as lovely,
playing naked on guitar
at night alone in silent dark
with trust in my eyes without glasses, looking at stars bravely
without this handicap device
and lonely daring the world
to tell me
I cannot see them without it
on,
using the strong reverberating
of my voice so pulsing out loud
with sureness and passion,
or fascinating at my tears
for more than two days
whilst in commotion
after reading deeply
“The Dead Poets Society”.

Surely you must have felt it
one way or another some time.

There must be a message
in the occurrence that whenever
in a closed-up space of time
I can never sit down
to any mind-occupying activity
yet resort no matter what
to observance,
passing as unrequited passion
of someone else’s (vocation),
shape-o-thoughts and sensing,
being the music the radio is listening to, and tender stupefying approaching
to hurt questions and structures
who hold onto philosophy
and one stance.
My depth darts me over
to finally look straight
into my own eyes
instead of straying,
diverting from the claim of my proper door.
I cannot die and will not,
will not leave my higher stake
for the trash bins’,
among which we live in,
sake.

Sooo shivered from
a deluge with heed,
at the naked and as nerves
bundled half as much
as I curled in to gasping.
They reminded me to call upon
the book of a Spanish
painter of the souls
as substance course clocked,
splattered with a trail
of blinding sunset upon gold rouse,
flowed constantly like rims
of Gaudi’s great work,
placed as a silken fabric
of blue paint yet

I praise Allah and thank Them
in both the physical and existential aspect for every beautifully greyish day
when I feel back in an English harbour from the 17th century,
where birds, ropes, wind,
bells and hammers against
the ships’ casings resound,
half in my vision stuck on reality
and half verily,
or on a faraway heather field,
where my books, thoughts,
words in pictures
and lives of Heart
are as if my own
tremendous in passion atelier
of a scribe
or my other flowers of brown.

I posses adoration in these grays,
blues, whites,
greens and browns of these days, freshnesses and delightments.
Nevertheless I need to meet and comprehend each other
till the end belovingly
with the Sun,
see behind its backstage the lack of imposing Time,
periods or actions, rush.
Sit down once without carnal duties
nor other shenanigans
and witness the whole solar and lunar cycle for the whole 24 hours
and thus see beyond their mechanism
and presence
and thus go
through that next conscience,
through these silver-golden curtains
with navy blue clips.

Isn’t that sitting over,
sitting down face to face
with the Day,
supposed Time, Matter,
instead of constant doing,
having or confusion
of the thoughts
the same as finally looking
straight into the other person’s eyes
to give them our witnessing
of our attention,
a bow,
and at the same time
a proud head raising,
especially for them,
instead of walking around them
and treating as another matter
to be solved?
No rhetorical question.
May I reach as fast as it’s the best
the beloving of wisdom
as a true philosopher
in my identity, not cognitivity.

It is fascinatingly probable
God balanced, protected, recompensed
how I feel misplaced in the confinements
to the vessel, in a biological
femininity even more being said,
by shaping that body as a speech
in my structure and palette embedded
of nature’s casts, messages‘
endearing faced:

I am put in a sunflower’s shift
when bearing a heat with caramel toning,
in the skin,
swift golden towel ‘round the
form naked,
shoulders
and all other petite
through that standing strong
like a sword’s leather hilt,
and eyes with hair of tenderly
made browns with lights and darks,
as freckles shining scattered,
with their origin from Gold arriving,
or at last the very nutrient
dark centre by seeds posed.

When sodden, it is a mangrove then,
the caramel whole now slick
yet strongly dense as its roots,
like when I get myself firmly stuck
on feet like double arrow
spread limbs
and like mahogany shade
stand reading images.

Or there’s at last and at wind
the cherry blossom:
my thoughts and sensing presence
are so beloving that they
emanate pink in passing,
just as it’s flowers with no fruit,
my top, a crown,
swaying branches,
irregular protruding.
I bloom so dearly with my shading,
I could almost kiss like leaves,
like they do with me.

Wish you could see me, this,
such loving dear sight to be.
Like slick, promising, calm own river.
Alas, an eerie beige coat that flutters
with child dreams