"If Silence knocks
on your door and you actually
open

You might as well
let it enter.

It won't do any harm to you"


You were told so many
many times
my Love
God, why you be so rough
to me and yourself?
Why not stepping in
the light
that frightened you so long?

Everything til here was like a story. A story that unfolded, backwards, until now
until now
until
Now
You grabbed
The pen and started
To write it
Truly
Write it
Yourself



You look up from the screen
You know
This is it

This

Is it

A part of me still
flinches
at the sight of
hospital scenes
tubes and white sheets
blood stains-
it's not the hospital though
it's
the memories

~

WHILE

{I cannot stop thinking about you = true}

remains true
remains true
remains...

YOU think this is all mathematics?
You think this is just dusty crap I found up in the attic
of my house?

Then: OUT!
Out of the loop, but mark:
Once this is done and talked about,
all screens go dark.

I dreamt that I woke up.

If the wolves
ate me
they'd have had a
good reason
and I know they won't
eat me because
they are
neither starving nor am I
interfering in their
territory
If the wolves
ate you
they'd have had
a good reason

On a bright sunny morning
Up in a field of chance
An orange-hooded creature shows
A vivid dance on a
White mountain top
Encircled in a cloud
Of greenish surging fog
Ad hoc thoughts
Throb through
Veins and arteries
And nothing there that might
Disturb the scenery

[...] If there were shadows on the walls they would be dancing around what appears to be the most outrageous scenery in this whole liquid universe, the one spot of color which could be seen as color: in the center of the deep water lake, the still and tense water, there sits, like a satisfied child crossed-legged and full of sweets, a pink lotus blossom on a bed of its own green thick rubber leaves. This stunning sight contrasts everything else of what this cave accommodates in an almost exaggerated manner. It is a shrill primal artefact in the purest and most humble surrounding.
The flower is there by itself, unaccompanied by any other blossom or plant, and yet it could not be more at ease with its exact position and situation. The mere sight of it is the most pleasant image - if only due to its convulsing inadequateness.

You hear this, listen.
I sit, naked, covering up a bit. I sit in a field, and no one sits with me yet. I stand, sit or both in turn. My skin feels so open that every thing comes like a blow.

I felt like this so often during the past few months, maybe even years. I felt like this, and did not feel like this.

I was naked in the field and unshielded because I could. I was naked because I knew I could be, and that you were there with me, always. I knew it and did not know it.

The eyes closed, the eyes open, half open. And the knowing, always there, but sometimes just like a distant scent, afar, in the background, to be grasped only with utmost gentleness.

This knowing grew, and so did my heart. Until now, it seems to let everything touch it, again, and feel for everything.

I am naked in the field, and I see everyone else, naked, being there with me.

Eyes open or not.

Holy Christ how
the hell could we
for so long
leave out
of this gesture
the Mother
how
on earth
could we think
this would work

An orange rose
floates
on the surface
and touches
your skin
something inside you
rises
then curls
before you hurl
yourself
into a wave
of heat

I put my heart in this poem
and wrap it
for whoever'd like
to take a look-
open and see-
and with a shy grin
tap the upload button
there-
You have it