Our Love

Our love?
I am you,
You are me,
We are one,
We are complete

Saint

She loves me,
but maybe not enough,
her love is conditional,
she wants me to be a saint,
while I fucking hate
being a saint

Intelligent Design

We are designed to live together
and not being able to survive without each other
and not being able to agree with each other
and enforced to like each other
in a divine project which is over budget
and the status of work
is still incomplete 

Accomplished Couple

Our love needs now
a king sized bed
to lay down,
to take a break
when the sun is down and the night is out,
to rest its tired limbs
and enjoy the peace
of less passionate days

Years before, when our love was young,
and underdeveloped,
a teenage body, frail, gaining strength by day,
or by night,
all it needed was a dingy sofa
with a broken leg
almost crushing under its own weight
of intense, dense feelings,
supported from underneath
by a badly dented tennis balls can
which had been
the best declaration of love
we had made
to each other

Our mature relation needs comfort now,
to feel good,
to get vigor,
it detests the freezing cold
which steals the heat from our fingers
when we throw snow balls at each other
and we’re not laughing anymore
and we’re not lying in the cold white powder anymore
to leave angels marks
in the angels territory

We are comfortably wrapped
in the deep, and fuzzy, and warm folds
of our poor, irrelevant, meaningless
television impregnated evenings

We are an accomplished couple

The Clothing Store

Those young people
who barged in the clothing store
Roxanne, Haut Couture,
close to Parliament Hill,
and local attractions,
this is Cynthia,
hey Ray,
were only incidentally dressed,
and looked out of place

Their godly bodies,
not yet affected
by too many happy returns
of their own selves
in different packages
the cycle is of nine months,
they say,
during which all our cells get replaced
we all should look anew,
they say,
but we look a bit shabbier,
actually,
a bit crooked, a bit cracked,
like old furniture that's been refurbished,
the work of apprentices,
for sure,
who were not in charge with making Cynthia and Roy,
hurrraaayyy!

Their eyes were playing catch up
with the hungry eyes of those strangers
who were fumbling through the items on display,
who didn't ask for permission
to caress with hungry looks
their smooth thigs and arms and legs and skin
in shameless, furtive, sneaky cover-ups
dipped in polite, sparkly smiles

They were chatting about clothes
with the overrated taste of their ages,
craving to talk to their own,
eager to be talked to by their own,
to be listened by their own,
to be loved by their own,
when we all strangers around them
were thinking the opposite of clothing,
were thinking Adam and Eve,
the primordial alley with a tree and a snake,
while their painfully tempting bodies
were shaking lose our feeble chains of morality,
were blindfolding the watchdogs of our decency,
were digging out the beauty hunters
in each of us

The goddess was tending to a bar,
must be exciting Cynthia,
not quite, Ray,
she was handing out abused glasses
filling them with the daily intakes of alcohol,
the necessary poison for dying with hope,
in survival mode,
to all those overweight old males,
with dirty looks,
and crumpled overalls,
and broken teeth,
and stinky mouths,
and an insatiate appetite for soliling the beauty,
for painting the intimacy of lovemaking
in the strong colors of rape,
she was tending the clients at the bar
with the same elongated, marmorean arms
she used to caress the naked torso
of her young lover,
Ray, cool Ray,
Cynthia, goddess of love,
two children of the night,
but she was talking strictly clothing
and didn’t seem to think about anything else,
while I did

Poetry

All I am trying to do
is take a deep, deep breath,
fill my lungs with the pure air of the heights
in my mind,
then exhale
and build with my freed up breath
a flower with translucent petals,
drawn by a delicate pen onto the watery, sparkly skin
of a puddle,
leftover from last midnight storm,
a piece of the ephemeral flesh
of the last night rain,
soon to be sucked up
by the healing breath
of the scorching sun

Tree Dream

I am a tree
with my roots deeply grounded
in the musty soil
of the forest

I am chained
even when the heavy storm bites with its sharp watery teeth
deep into my skin of leaves,
I cannot move an inch
to meet and greet the other trees
to shake branches with them,
although I can grow up tall,
tall enough to take a peek
at the far away thin line of the horizon,
with its skin ripped off,
by the forest jagged back,
while my canopy whispers
words of joy, and words of pain
under the manly caress
of the free wind

All I want
is to reach out
to my fellow trees,
to touch their rough skins
with my knotted, vigorous branches

My dreams are real:
I have birds with colorful feathers
and sleek bodies,
playing in my tangled hair of leaves,
and I wish them to fly high up,
to pierce the stretched canvas of the sky,
look behind it,
where the earth cannot pull them down
anymore,
and the stars are not strong enough to pull them in
yet,
where the gravity becomes just a disease
in the past,
or in the future,
and the present
is being happy and free of any gravitational constraint

But all these birds do
is finding rest
into the comfortable, motherly arms
of another canopy
and none of my dreams are going through the door
of the colorless sky,
and none of my dreams are coming back,
to rest on my shoulders
tired of so much waiting

Moving Out

Sitting with my son
on the empty floor,
in the middle of a bare, white painted apartment
starting up his life,
chatting about furniture and curtains and cable tv,
sharing with him wisdom I don’t have
giving him courage he doesn’t need
to cover the naked insolence
of his younghood emptiness

Where’s my father?
Where’s my mother?
I was just chatting with them
about furniture and curtains and cable tv
in my bare, white painted apartment
where I started my life

I remember they went out
to take a stroll
into the eternity around the corner,
as I myself am going to walk out
through that white painted door
of my son’s empty apartment,
and not yet furnished life,
to take a stroll
into the windy corridors of his memory

Architectural Boldness

The hefty walls of brick
of the old mansion,
half buried in a coffin of glass,
in sheer architectural boldness,
were all wet,
all watery
from the midnight rain,
and all covered in verses

Was only I
who could see?

Life after life,
like rain droplets drumming in a bucket,
ephemeral insects with bodies of water
on the sunny, dusty planet skin,
history is but a collection of shadows

Rain was walking slowly,
undulating its shoulders,
in a sexy strut,
down on the walls,
invisible limax
leaving behind a thick juice of verses
written in water

It’s raining in the city
the water beats the rhythm
hits the drums of quietude
with its watery limbs,
keeping busy among the insignificant events of the day,
and I read a poem
written in verses of rain
on the walls
of the old mansion
which rests in peace
in the glass coffin
of sheer architectural boldness

Melting Away

While I’m getting older
by the hour
and my wife leaves me
with a layered ice cream
in my hand,
holding it for her while she’s shopping
for things she doesn’t need

While I’m out on the sidewalk,
in the hot summer day,
in the jazzed up downtown street,
swirling with bodies
quickly sunken in the funnel of oblivion
of the city life,
counting the passer-byes,
counting the minutes,
till the ice cream melts away
till my life melts away

Whatever

I am surrounded by whatever people
getting to work on whatever highways
stampeded by honking hoards of horses
harnessed in iron rods and wires and gurgling pipes,
ridden by unintentional cowboys, 
the new breed of carboys
who chew common places,
and spit out banalities,
demotivated drivers by day,
missing lovers by night,
trapped in their metal, shiny, sleek cages,
sliding on wheels of all-season rubber,
that take them with increased speeds
and improved GPS-es
to the whatever day
of their own extinction

The planet
is a non productive life environment,
it lacks leadership,
there's no roadmap to the future, no life projections,
God could be an outstanding architect,
I give him that,
but he's an absent manager,
with all these people swarming around,
who could be singers, or poets, or mad scientists,
but they end up
stuck on the highway,
aiming to take an exit,
any exit out of their miserable lives,
some of them managing to do that,
mostly on the express lanes,

Whatever drivers
parasites on the slender arms of the highway,
like insects sucking from an asphalt stem,
like sneaks shedding their skins
of illusions, or dreams
quickly abandoned in the high traffic,
piled up on the side of the road,
the whatever road

I have a hard case laptop,
a helmet with arteries of bytes,
instead of head,
my mind is all wired up
to think functions
and utter commands
instead of thoughts,
or feelings,
sometime verses pop up on my laptop’s screen,
instant flashes of light,
out of nowhere,
those are bugs, biensur
that I need to shade off,
to get a good wash,
with soap operas and reality tv,
to get cleaned up,
to get debugged,
to fully live my demotivated life
in the affluent neighborhoods
of the whatever cities

Stuck in traffic
in a tide of whatever drivers
flux and reflux
of insignificant things,
of underutilised lives,
floating adrift
in the high seas of Nowhere

Man of my Time

I cannot just sit there
and watch helplessly
how my life gets wasted,
drowns
in the sometimes heavy floods
of a poetry deluge
that comes from nowhere
in these bare fields of the daily desert

I cannot just give up
the workday automation,
or throw away the extinguishers of my nights,
bad food, bad wine, bad movies, bad lovemaking,
the meaningless chores,
that keep me away from touching by mistake
the sharp edges
of the relevant things
where I could cut my thinking
and I could ooze out
till fainting, till passing out,
fatally injuring,
and wasting the lifes
of myriads of baby thoughts

I cannot accept
that I could find interest
in watching the anonymous street
taken over by the army of anonymous people,
faces without contours
on the hard canvas of a shadowy concrete,
the cyanotic skin of the dying city,
and let the words
to whisper broken lines
in my ears,
worn out of the deep silence
in the day desert

I cannot let
the belief of irrelevance
of everything I do
of everything you do
take over,
fetch the sceptre in my washed up brain,
the only kingdom they made me swore allegiance to

I cannot just sit and watch him die,
my private Sisif of daily chores
my trustful slave
who never listened to a song
who never recited a verse
who never sang a line

I am a man of my time

Modern Poetry

Laying naked,
In the middle of a cluttered room,
with clads of verses in disarray,
tossed away,
piled up on the dusty floor,
in unshapely mound,
the back of a tired dromedary 
cut out
from the dying shadows of the desert,
hunted down by the fiery sunset,
from the myriads of dreams
never getting out from their cocoons,
from the thousands of words
still unspoken, still unborn

In the room with its walls scribbled with my unspeakable fears,
where I’ve been born to be locked up for life
and freed up for death,
my vital space
cluttered with the worn out, broken down furniture
of all I thinks, I dreams, I loves,
I strut naked
exposing my bare flesh of feelings,
the intimate part of my thoughts,
undulating my dull existence
in front of large, wide windows
looking out to the wide city,
built for public scrutiny,
where only indifferent eyes look back, inside me,
seeing nothing,
feeling nothing,
wanting nothing,
too busy to get to the nearby stop,
to catch the jam-packed bus
to the dominion of Insignificance

Perfection

I stare out fixated
to a point nowhere,
looking for perfection
through the narrow windows
of my imperfect body


I seek out perfection
stepping on my dented bedroom floor,
driving my car with a squeaking belt
using the words of a rented language
which I ‘m still considering if to die in it
or not


I'm hungry for the perfect curves
of a woman's body
caress her soft, smooth skin
with my crooked fingers,
harvest the petals of her silky mouth
with my chapped, rough lips


I crave perfection
from our weathered out relation
dented by the daily storms
of insignificance


I’ve been assigned the task,
through birth,
to carve a perfect pan flute
out of the melodious, colorful wood
of my dreams
with a dull, wretched chisel


I live
to play the discordant notes
of my imperfect keyboard
whose keys are words
and words are whispers,

I aim to reach the land of perfection
with a broken compass

Night Vision

I know this guy
who doesn’t believe a word you’re saying
unless it’s been written by someone
who published a book,
or recorded by someone else
who submitted
an internet article
or a post in a blog

The other day
I was telling him
how much I love
staring for hours at the yellow sky
snatched from my nightly reverie
only by the rising, blue sun

And then he looked at me
with eyes heavy of mockery,
and at the same moment he said:
There is no such thing
like yellow sky
and blue sun!

It is,
I said,
of course it is,
but only for those
who have night vision
and day blindness

So Like Mine

I’ve been born,

to be hurried up to die,
dissuaded to stay alive
too long,
they run out of space on planet Life,
we can survive
only in transformation

to be terrified by the pointy catapults of eyes
launching payloads of stares at me,
invisible arrows from the dark, muzzled up tunnel of the crowd,
eyes like dented, still sharp blades,
so like theirs,
so unlike mine

to be frightened by the words
shouted in anger at me,
from the broken, deafening speakers of the throng,
mouths of plastic and wires,
so like theirs,
so unlike mine

to be put down by dry expectations
labelled with thick glue on me,
stuck right onto my mouth,
pushed in my ears
by the thick thumbs of the almighty, all dull mob,
heavy hands, pointy fingers,
so like theirs,
so unlike mine

to be
impregnated by the heavy scent,
blinded by the bright colors,
deafened by the sharp sounds
of the others’ pains,
and feelings,
and emotions,
and reactions,
and tantrums,
and craves,
and preferences,
and loves,
and hatreds,
all piled up in careless display
on a messy counter
in a crowded store
where everyone who enters must buy something,
the more you buy
the less the guilt
of breaking the existing order of things
that you didn’t want,
and you haven’t been asked
if you wanted it
or not,

the order
that is
so like theirs
so unlike mine

I’ve been born
to be sentenced and imprisoned
right after my first breath,
or my first cry,
or my first push with my tiny legs
towards a freedom,
I will never grab,
but I will never cease to try to grab,

I’ve been born
to share my name with millions of others,
each tossed in their lonesome cell
among billions of other cells,
where we all are sentenced to live our lives,
and be grateful for being protected
against joy, and freedom, and happiness,
knocking at each other through the impenetrable walls
of strangled communication,
whispering incomprehensible words
through the thick mortar
of solid, impenetrable skin of human rock
till our knuckles
get drenched in their own blood,
get broken and feeble,
and the whispers you get back
are 
so like theirs
so unlike mine

I thought I was thrown in the world as a black, dull grain of sand
on a huge beach,
of white, lustrous grains of sand

If I only had known then
What I know now,
that the others’  pains
and feelings,
and emotions,
and reactions,
and tantrums,
and craves,
and preferences,
and loves,
and hatreds
are so like mine,
and there’s not even a black grain of sand
in the billions of grains of sand
on the white, infinite beach,
washed up rhythmically
by the eternity tide

and everything that is
is
so like theirs
so like mine