Numbers of the lights still don't add up. The dream station on the orange bridge's sands, is so totally too far away to fly to. My life according to the animadversion of my dreams. The harangue and opprobrious odium whilst wandering about aimlessly in the square, on the blackened honey trail where I was cast around like some pebble lapidated by the wind. I barely stand, a hyaloid column soaked in fear and ambiguphobia; one girl's face is blurred by this maddening diplopia. While the haze drapes me in its suits of cinereous gray, I crawl sadly up the rise while I am bruised from the battering. My fuscous body heaps itself, exhausted and pandiculating, all I can make out in the advesperating and cloudy night, in all of its dourly silences- the gold hair fixed against the banner of light in the darkening sky and her beautiful blue eyes.

I woke this afternoon
with still a
cinereous sheet over me but
how strange
it was the light and
my head bobbing as in
water of timeless air and
my skin skimming

off touches of memory
inhaled with tingling
apprehension and scents
capable of warping and
disfiguring me to

mereness

o' cinereous city  
give to me your blacktops
where on hard white asphalt
impenetrable, grave and square

we play hardscrabble with toughs
who huddle in groups
hanging keds that swing in the air

a pitch of blank gray
a field of kicked stones
ashen, barren
the end of confusing friends

but still a place to go
and run and run and run
when all at once, filled with children laughing, crying, jumping, stumbling, climbing, bouncing,
announcing life in eternal screams - - let me play!

She adorns her face with platinum
piercings, and her azure hair peeks
out of her indigo hoodie. Her
ragged, cinereous jeans reveal
scabbed and bruised knees, and
they’re tucked into jet black
biker boots strapped to her feet.

Without hesitation, she crosses the street.

Tires screech and car horns beep and drivers
scream obscenities that ornament the air
with scorn. Yet like a red belonging in folklore,
she slights their violent contempt.

She tipples from the burn of
self-destruction, and savors the
flavor of rebellion, a savor so
sweet it overwhelms her senses
and compels her to behave reckless.

And as I pass, I throw up my best fist
of anarchy. I wish I was free like this.

Though it takes a tinge of toughness
to stare into the nihilistic abyss,
it takes courage to have fun in it.


-
Aleksander Mielnikow