It'd be nice to have a *** belly stove
to sit up close to like a treasure trove
in those moments when you'd be alone
depending on no one else who's prone;
and sit there beside it in its afterglow
with nothing to think about or to know
for its warmth would give you strength
in cold days where you'll be at length
to immerse yourself in another world
that would open up before you unfurled
and where you'd be safe from any menace
lurking behind all the darkness or surface
of those places hidden in your child's mind
to wander about in with some friendly kind.
____

My eyes feel very vulnerable in the moment just like yours when you glance upon me. Thoughts of you keep floating in this room like ghosts ready to possess me and throw me down on the bed and make love to me. I think I was right when I told you about the wind touching me in all those places which are rightfully yours. The howling, barbaric, digressive wind who takes your place beside me every night and makes me moan as I sleep. Lover, won’t you claim your mistress back from the embrace of the air, from the dead of the night? I breathe. Silent restless sighs. My eyes wander away into the woods of tall words and unguided, lose track of time and disappear away.

These woods are of dark myriad words
With huge canopies and a mossy floor,
And bogs and mires,
And ancient carcasses,
Undeserving of funeral pyres.

A wooden tree house
Lies atop those forgotten branches
Where resides a queer beast
Called “Soul”.
She is as faithful as she is fretful.
She is worrisome and lonesome.
She has few things,
Just some.

Sometimes,
She bleeds poetry.
And the vacuum of her eyes,
Resembles the tinted void of the skies.
The sunlight could flow through her.
Unadulterated.
Untransformed.
And resurrect more trees
From the decaying pyre,
Of memories.

Pink, green, yellow and blue
Are shades of a silent hue,
Who look at her face
And stare enraptured,
At what she becomes.
A terrible travesty,
Yet a beautiful catastrophe.

The wooden walls of her suntorn tree house, on the corner of bamboo wo(o/r)ds are studded with gems of lichen. Damp, ***** and delicate is the green of the Soul. It is unfriendly out there where she treads undaunted and unclothed, sometimes resting her back against the slithering cold of the disquiet walls. All this so she could lick her fingers and touch the raw of her vertebra. She rubs her bones against defenseless bodies, writhing against each other.

Soul
In the woods of words.

Soul
Bellicose,
Domineering,
Salacious.

Soul,
With a potbelly
And a twisted smile,
That could conceive
Insects
As she spoke.

Yet,
Soul,
Who could
Filter
The Sunlight.

Little flowers dot her face. Wild flowers from weeds she would not let live, so she bereaved them of their flowers. The forests throb with the excitement of her whimsy. The sunlight grins remembering all the ways in which her monstrous glory falls apart in front of him and all the places he could illumine by trapping her. He has trapped her into carrying his s(u/o)n everywhere, but never visit. The winds mock her and play with her hair and perversely caress the belly that nurses the sun’s child.

Poor Soul,
Tiny Soul,
So brutally Young.

Angry Soul,
Humiliated Soul,
Disgruntled
And foul.

Her vulnerable eyes wander away into the woods of tall words and, unguided lose track of time and disappear away.

The Unbearable Winter’s mist

The winter’s mist,
peculiar,
the sky augurs
blue and sun mellow,
but clouded vision
begets and besets,
my own and owned
melancholy vision is
a consequential
snake like blurry speckled band,
of my own drawing,
covering my eyes,
when I read Márai‘s
wit, write, legal writ,
but with my corrected
add
of the
un
and my own self assigned
grade is a bright red
F


eye of the beholder

Life becomes unbearable
”when one has come to
terms with who one is,
both in one's own eyes
and in the eyes of the world.
We all of us must come to terms
with what and who we are, and
recognize that this wisdom is not
going to earn us any praise, that
life is not going to pin a medal on
us for recognizing and enduring
our own vanity or egoism or
baldness or our potbelly. No, the
secret is that there's no reward
and we have to endure our characters
and our natures as best we can, because
no amount of experience or insight is
going to rectify our deficiencies, our
self-regard, or our cupidity. We have
to learn that our desires do not find
any real echo in the world. We have
to accept that the people we love
do not love us, or not in the way
we hope. We have to accept betrayal
and disloyalty, and, hardest of all,
that someone is finer
than we are in
character or intelligence.”

Sándor Márai