In his eyes – rivers,
of hidden knowledge;
no axioms, two fronts and
the beautiful insanity
that blossoms on his rugged skin.
In his eyes – watered flowers,
for nymphs, for satyrs’ bliss.
No sonnets or rhymes,
just the beautiful vitality
of movement and the soft
touch of his hands.
His face an eclipse I gazed upon for too long,
halo of saints & wisdom of the wisest,
distant light can never break through holes.
His music – muscles stretching poetry.
Enough with poetry, criminal coveting of my eyes,
rendering objects – peaks & mountains.
Nature seems to be his, well as deep as thoughts,
I cut the rope & stay on the surface where I can
enjoy the sweetness of shining apples in the sun.
Her head leans on the cold train’s window while
witches are leaving their wicked incantations,
their cursed tears blocked from all exits.
Her weary eyes fixed on compositions of movement,
clear sky and a speck of lightning that changes the view,
trees turn to a reflection of a couple standing behind the bench.
He – a soldier with skin darkened, nurtured by the sun,
and around him wrapped the wide smile of the girl.
She laughs sparkles, sheltered on his skinny chest,
her bashful silence on his weekly strength.
Her eyes won’t let go of her soldier, her happiness,
love at its most fertile stage of evolution.
The view outside has darkened into night,
and the couple’s reflection vanish for a few moments of relief.
That’s what she wanted –
Only what she knew, only the comfortable particle
of her comfortable and lonely life.
The throat threatened again with its ache,
tears demanded their freedom but she fought them.
It’s not the place to confront hard questions
she doesn’t want to answer – one false outlet –
no place for suffering caused only by her, force.
She conquers the moment with a single deep breath,
in her ears the girl’s laughter, pops like sweet corn,
fills the wagon with the crunch of unfamiliar love
Calm, collected, crowded by lip-bloated fans;
He’ll get what he wants even if his eyes drop
on the bashful enjoying fried pleasures.
Nights of hard work tipped by the body
and mornings paved by tired hours.
While Bob Dylan is singing about tangled Blues
he’ll weave his web – rugged looks
and enough drinks to boost charisma;
he’ll get what he wants even if his words
don’t run smoothly down her throat.
Calm, collected, crowded by lip-floated fans,
the bartender is king & only the night is his
I must have overslept when
the message was delivered;
when eyes met & hands were held;
when one awaited another’s phone call –
passion’s own tension with matters of patience.
I must have woke up too late, after
they said how one could find it;
what to say between trembling lips;
what to do in between sweetened sips of silence –
passion’s own frictions with matters of tension.
I must have waited too long in line
for screen tests & awkward auctions;
no intellect could bid high enough;
no attention for brown eyes & hair;
just sold-out sex, painful, bloody –
passion’s own joke on those lacking direction
Flight and fight,
trains deliver the body in their usual pace.
Usual – when silence hits the air with clarity,
and the horizon aligns with a single color –
boring, dangerous, optimal.
Success leaves its oily marks on my fingers,
there’s still an aftertaste
when the tongue licks the salt off the tips –
privileged labor in the 24/7 era,
flight, fight and that frail fright,
give me a sip of that wine, I’ll be fine.
Is that alright?
I reach for your hand as our bodies swirl,
it’s so gray when we try to catch up with the storm;
all is dust, forgettable mist without any mystery.
Can you see them?
We’re little sinners, petty gods of petty misfortunes;
tribes dance while we’re turning, black eyes
and honest smiles. Their feet sing of rain,
stomping on poor fires, feeding on the poorer.
Is that alright?
I reach for our tiny tragedies,
pills so romantic,
and they don’t even have water.