in the centre of the cathedral
the square of a little town
where those in the know tell of an invisible cathedral.
a massive guest
the outside light
there is such purity in the pigeons’ feathers
superfine flour falls from the sky
on buildings on trees on people’s shoulders.
small bones rattle echoing in the coffin of a small guitar
while the world can no longer contain happiness.
there at the wall
two lovers wind into an 8.
late. in their shade
a blind horse
is crying sweat from its neck.

Ion Mircea, from *My Cup of Light

I did not want to write.

Maybe because I didn’t know
If it were right for me
To ache with such feelings:
To feel the abandonment of,
And feel the longing for
The arms that always seemed to be there to catch me,
But never there to hold me for long.
To hear the voice
That had always calmed my raging thoughts.
But never in those moments
Have I ever heard it with my own ears.

I did not want to write.

Maybe because I didn’t know
If I even deserved
To feel this sad, and so alone
When all I’ve never done
Was to make you feel the opposite
Of what I’m feeling right now.
To feel like I have lost
A love
That I never even gave a chance to begin with.

I did not want to write.**

But I guess,
There’s nothing else I could do
To hoard and keep-
Or maybe to squander and let go
Of the suffering
That may not even be love
But just a blind infatuation.

Two souls that were meant to be.
Spent their time searching for their other halves.
Two souls that were blind to see.
Blindness split them into two separate parts.


Their memories stuck in each other's minds.
Sadness evident in their eyes.
The thought about each other made their minds ran wild.
How they wish they could go back in time.


Two souls that suffered in pain.
Regretting why'd they let each other slip away.
Two souls that want to try again
Hoping that they're not too late.

I'm half blind
in one eye,
which makes me quarter blind.

It doesn't bother me though.

The flower doesn't need eyes
to see the sun

the fog rises up
i succumb to the blindness
becoming quite lost

1.
The darkness fled before me
While I stayed in the light
The black covering both land and sea
Destroying sight.
Basking in the heat, burning in the sun
We toasted the darkness, once it had gone.

God had said, wringing out his curls, ‘let there be light’,
Clearly, the dark came first.
But god floundered at night
And darkness he thunderingly accursed.
It was sent temporarily away
While god fashioned ‘Day’.

Yet, the dark was firstborn
The preferred planned child
And visually undernourished and presciently worn
Was the expected, the ideal, not the reviled;
Day was only a change of mind
God, the twister, making us see when we are blind.



2.
It was of an infinite hue, purple not black
Deepening towards the centre, consuming everything
A materialisation of Lacan’s Lack
Without substance, pleasure or pain.
It delved in and out in senseless monotony
Heightening sensation here, there performing a lobotomy.

At times, it reflected me and then it reflected you
Assembling features, and reassembling,
But never with every ****** nuance true
It shuffled several, naturally dissembling,
Unable to be fixed. It pretended to be human,
But like you and me, it shuffled like a golem.

Flying away it came back with equal velocity
Opening its imagined maw
Emitting as it approached tongues of electricity
Through time it tore.
Past and future congealed into a putty-like mass
Dying with the light, it disappeared up my ***

A mulish tread after another,
in a constant pace, ******, boring,
Indifferent to why, when or where,
Scorched by a violent hiss, prompting
another tread, another obsolete yard.
Oblivious to a world behind a glimpse,
were you not too blind to see