like a spanish fly

estranged
în melancholy
and silence

my soul

cranches everything
and all,
lives in a golden-green cantharidin world
with its (specific) strange
smell

(but I guess it's better to feel something than nothing)

but
to get to you
i need Maria
to take me
on the water
her legs
to touch the ground
for me to fly
her hands embrace the wind
for me to caress your cheeks
with the palm
to part your hair like a path
as lips touch your forehead
to taste the fire of today
i need Maria
to bring me to you

Some virtual friends,
virtual family,
brothers,
virtual sisters could not find me today: where did you get lost,
do you live in the forest, at the end of the world,
has any catastrophe happened?
the green dot does not appear, you don't blow hearts in the air,
balloons,
the kittens are fewer and fewer on fb:

My dear virtual friends,
dear virtual family,
what can i say or write you,
suppose a catastrophe had happened or would happen,
i think (i'm a human)
what could i write you from all that catastrophe, and how much, and
how, and
whence, and
how could i tell you that i need a glass of water, if i needed one,
how could i tell you that i need a crutch, if i needed one,
who to look for, how to find you, call the ambulance,
firemen,
how
and how much, and where, and
how could i hug you, and
could you hug me??
*
My dears,
don't worry,
i am in good health: i watered the flowers, i walked the dog
i did the laundry (like any other person),
i cooked a lot of food this weekend, like at home
i cooked enough for twenty people,

Don't worry my dears,
i am in good health,
it's just that day today,
i missed people
people,
real
people.

'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.

Just happens,
Your mood on paper fueled by the ink
A delicious toppings
Of metaphors,
Alliterations
Personifications,
Hyperboles,
Onomatopoeia,
That makes words come alive using the five senses,
The seeds that you till in the ground to get a harvest of poetry,
Bringing out the souvenirs of passion and compassion tucked within your soul,
And sprinkled with emotions that flow in rhythmic waves.
18/9/2022

~
Moving beyond the sun
to where our minds
are a fraction behind us,
believing they've found
the other-side.

I am glass shattered by redemption,
and I am now the shadow
of a mirrored divinity,
for somewhere out there
is a god resembling my face,
and its nakedness stares me down.

Raising eyebrows at the moon
as if this is love's culprit,
yet, opening arms and minds welcome
the thereupon lust as if
some devoted era:
bow and arrow shapes
of you and me,
falling out of love without travail,
but of constant ease.

I look better in black and white
than in vulnerability,
my exploitation of
private earth looms casual,
though I'm well aware
of the vibrations it sends.

Manipulators of love and war
were all we really wanted to be,
cheating destiny
by falling for the future.

And from this side of our mind
the sun was always cold,
just a vague old relic in a fresh grave:
a princess ruling among
the ruins of past decisions,
and happily she gives
a stagnant kiss of consequence.

Recommitted wind breaks
through, like turning, burning
pages desperate to speak.

But I'd rather that her white lies
take me now, than a waking grasp
or a skirmishing wave
terrorize me,
as this black [media] plagued sun's
desecrated heart bleeds
and recalls to mind
the coming blasphemy.
~