Our silence is an Arik Einstein record,
our rhythm – a fusion of a swing set & the wind.
For us every piece of freedom is ceremonial,
white shiny linen pressed upon one little moment,
our bodies placed perfectly like silverware,
cleaned out before the world feasts
on rusty routine & wretched clocks.
Our silence is a holiday on a big porch,
overlooking the inviting grass
we’re celebrating underneath a long blanket
and a hug that warms parts left barren.
It’s still just us and Arik,
nostalgia that may have been forgotten,
may not have even existed, but takes a few
fantastic breaths – we’re in love.
With my head on your rugged skin, my nose
rubs against the idea of entering our home
and you – so beautiful – write melodies
with unconscious eyes, another music
I’m hoping to sing with you tonight
He makes his own while machines are typing
lonely sounds & romantic incentives –
they navigate through lengths of heart-strings.
His blood masturbates as he laments
cadaverous goddesses mimicking reason;
his love melts under summer heats, awake,
alive when he finds the perfect disguise.
Layers upon layers of colored canvases
splashing scrambled sex screams,
shackled under limited night skies.
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.
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.