memento #15

That day you’ve entered my solitude
with your predisposition to transgress
I was trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle
of the “The Bridal Pair With the Eiffel Tower”
between some scattered urges to repent.

You asked me for a glass of wine
and to be romantic as you remembered me.

I told you to get the butter…

(afterwards I was with you)

on top of that unfinished puzzle
on top of that dusty floor
on top of those broken memories,

between some scattered urges
to repent.

a salamander’s dream

​rummaging in the warren of my consciousness,

searching for an ore-like-inclusions
into the fabric of time
for some recollection
of how it was when I still could grasp the meaning of pain.
… a thrist
… a rage
… a ravaging tide of phantom emotions
(I forgot how to breath under the water)

I’m the sadomasochistic axolotl of my own deceit, —
cutting myself: a piece, after a piece;
then swallowing those pieces,
listening to the hissing of a gastric acid.

yet they regenerate in a jiff.

… and so on
and nobody can’t stop this cannibalistic paraphernalia.

all the memories are only a multiplication of the same recollection of an untangled
chromosome.

a rigor mortis of time.

and all the cracks on my lips, —
are matching your scars.

the sad conclusion

Earlier this morning,
on the subway platform in Brooklyn,
Manhattan bound, I was dealing with the hermeneutics
of pouring rain, soaking people
and the subway train,
that was running late.

and I didn’t find anything prophetic
in this morning nuisance.

Till later, —
when the woman entered the train
with her disabled son.

She didn’t say a word, but the eloquence
of her eyes was overwhelming.

She looked at her boy,
I was looking at them.

I saw the light,
but the shell around my soul
was still too thick
to comprehend.

then I had to step off.

a modal composition

The buzzing neon lights
are restricting my mobility.

I’m subdued to fuzzy darkness
of your modal jazzy riffs

Turn me inside out, babe!
now turn me back.
Turn me one more time!

My veins,–
are untangled rails,
yours are abstractive streets
(east to west, up and down)

Your eyes are windows to my soul, —
mine are headlights on the taxi,
rushing through the vigor of an avenue.

The helicopter landing near Brooklyn bridge,
barely touching the landing pad
with its skids, —
skin to skin…

No! an air to an air
a tantric experience;
a Kundalini awakening.

(a gentle chiming)

an air to an air!

more,– till the ferry will blow its horn.

and a wild brass of a baritone saxophone
will suck you into the sensual vortex.

Buzzing neon lights.
Buzzing neon nights.

Turn me inside out, babe…
Turn me…