that i am willing
to sit through this
suffering discomfort
and awkwardness
repeatedly and
of my own volition
must be a testament
to something
i am just not clear
whether it should
be taken as a positive
         or negative
it might show courage
could merely be folly
a sign of resilience perhaps
or remnants of my naivety
it could be inspirational
belief in oneself or
simply a case of conceit
let's be honest
it could be any of those
or it could be none
yet more than likely
i am overthinking
everything again

i would like
to keep bees
or at least
i like the idea
of keeping bees
to be honest
i know nothing
next to nothing
about all that
it entails
but it seems like
it would be cathartic
although their frenzies
may be calmed
by the smoke
movements must remain
slow and gentle
such fragility
must be tended to
   carefully
   mindfully
almost lovingly
i think i like
the idea of the peace
to be found in
those moments
there is a
shade-dappled spot
at the bottom
of the garden
that would be
the perfect place
for them
where the humming
of the hive
would accompany
the swaying of
the tree's
their gentle whispering
and the quietude
that would settle
beyond

garlands
blooming within themselves
like the fast-forwarded movements
of a gyre’s quiet devour;
splashes dressed in white
that play by my feet

it is difficult to paint
more so to say
the reckless curiosity of water and wave

a little childish I am
stumbling around the banks of secretive songs
—dirges drowsy that move like silk
and violins’ exaggerated tales
drumbeat rains where Indian brides are known to blush
and acoustic plucks—
drop on bead-like drop
upon my clammy palm

I want all

slip and sink I
within the ongoing skies
fish and bird and moon I meet
shell and bone and mud

a little naive I am
relishing the gusts of sand that
through my curled up hand
gush

it is difficult to learn
more so to sing
the reckless curiosity of shimmer and sun

white and greying gold
on the sand-paper shore

head in a garland of arms
and eyes— breathing
all in
blind with the intensity of gaze

a little ragged I am
a little paper-boat astray
a little cloud painted that forgot to bleed

(a little parched field)

I tell you
reckless rebellion sprouts
upon a hopeless soil
where
every scrawny arm
itself grasps,
its own kin smothers.

but they need not know
of the madness we house

still, tired I am
of moping around.
tired as well of doubts
so,
hollow us albeit,
let the sapling grow;
bloom and all and on—
till a stout, angry fuel it makes

then burn we may
and ashen too.
and I know you’re scared
curse this valour— oh,
curse we, yet
fail to topple
this palace of cards.

cards: silenced tremors.

fight, we fight the tyrant air
that holds firm our wings
and will let not go

and I know you’re scared

any clumsy wind may bare for us
our own restraining snakes—
stink of mud, of rot and ash.
but they have not yet.
not yet.

let grow this mad and
burning tree
let grow, let grow
for when you rot, I
willingly, foolishly
mimic

Sun-catcher of a child,
Ever crushing light to mirthful specks
—Hue-kissed,
One pebble you jump from
To the next, where around the grave
of your glassy eyed dove they sit.

A candle in hands
yielding to the flushed flesh.

On one, then another, you jump
Muddy soles and tears
dried to a wakeful slumber.
Ships, donned with innocence,
set sail;
papers withered and wet
by the lips of this hazy stream—
My, how many letters did you write?

Sun, hold these eyes and sun,
cry they out,
Pearls and pearls
And pockets filled with melodies
of your long-hollowed dove,
You leave your prints
on the worshipping pebbles—
Deserted this desperation, is it not?
Then, run, I hiss, and—

You— you, naive, moon-loved of
a weakened rose,
Round and round you skid
(A ritual learned from the ballads of a dove)
A flicker in your palms
Try you
birthing yourself a god
Resurrect your dove, you will, you say.
You will, you will, you will!
How foolish this sorrow;
foolish more the hope it feeds.

And, tread away, I hiss.
Oh, tread away!
The haze is rising, as the old sun
shrinks—
That ******* of your chaste love—
Would that I
could mold ruin out of hatred,
would that, (but I am dry an angry cloud).

Tread away—
Oh, I shout a forest gone mad.
No frenzy, you have known, none
can you fathom.

Crystal waters of lakes dawn-licked,
Round and round you whirl
your ****** beloved dove.
(I will, I will, I will!)
Oh, but,
honey of my aridity,
the vultures are here, and— and
it is not your cold, grey dove
they desire.

Then you, so adorned a dream,
Softened to a violent idiocy—
Would that I
could grow cages out of despair,
You would have had enough of these doves
and their skies twinkling with tales

Then you,
honeyed tea, and sweets
with gold shrouded—
A tasteless devour—
The vultures are here,
Precarious sun-catcher!
Vultures! Vultures—
But did you ever really learn…

Over countless months by design,
a great firework he did make,
Constructed from lies and deceits,
and by turning all truths to fake.

Honest men of morals that believe,
that truth by righteousness will always win out,
By established rules and ethic as tools,
seek to quell the falsehoods shout.

They believe the pyrotechnician,
a fool of doubtful mind.
For they cannot see the plan he holds,
hidden by deceit of such evils kind.

Divided is the great citadel,
where once truth had walked without fear or care,
To become the protected sanctuary,
to the lies that now thrive in there.

He buys the time for his plan,
that has not altered not one bit.
While good men go on as before,
thinking they have hold of it.

All of this by his design,
since from too many days ago.
He has cast you all as characters,
in this his fatal show.

When martial law is imposed,
by the power you afford him still.
Remember that you had the chance to choose,
for truth's flag to fly steady upon the hill.

I see you in a way most people dream of;
pictures do no justice, words barely scrape the surface
with your eyes that makes me want to sin
undoubtedly beautiful beyond understanding
with smiles and laughs that brightens everyone around you
making it a sight never to be forgotten or unloved
with figures so tempting even the faithfull-ed can't resist
every curves, intersection and archs within you all divine
but mostly i am in love with you,
i am in love with the idea of you i've made of you over time
so i was you ways people dare not, loved you in ways people prayed for

My palms in my pockets jingle
the keys to my cave as I make
my way to wherever I’m going.
My legs propel me, and my feet
dodge cast-off gum and dog dung.

And on my head rests a fishbowl.

An extra load on my skull,
but I don’t mind. I rather
like this bowl. It gives me
a barrier, and though thin,
the glass has yet to crack.

I hear my voice resound,
bouncing around the tiny
space, and I smell my breath,
minty fresh and foggy, and
through the fog the world and
its creatures are phantoms.

When I’m addressed, it’s like
floating in frigid freshwater
as they call for me from
the sheet of ice above.
They suspect I’ve lost
my soul in the fishbowl,
yet as year after year
goes by, I feel just fine.

I am an astronaut taking
a space walk, drifting around
and watching the universe
unfold under a sheet of glass.

And when I close my eyes,
I am in a womb, or a coffin,
and I often can’t tell the
difference, nor find much
of a reason to tell.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow