a melancholy #5

An imbalance of adrenaline and melatonin.
Circling in pairs
In the North-West direction.
She wanted a crown of pearls,
but he gave her a pot of geraniums.

They lived, yet not long enough,
probably because they didn’t post enough cat pics.
They were drawing the air, but it turned into
a raging fire, and everything around was burning
while the trees were crying aloud.

It’s hot in the city during the second half
of this summer. An asphalt is melting in tired muscles,
And you can hear the mourning of the mute alarm.
While he was looking for Nirvana in the nerves of the subway,
She found her peace in the metaphor of Hexogen.

The cannibalistic axolotl

I knew a girl,
she wanted to lick everything she liked,
everything she wanted to behold if
she couldn’t reach a full mental grasp of it
using other senses.

I knew a man,
he ate his dreams, while he was asleep.
Once, he became so hungry
so he ate his soul;
and at the dawn of next morning
he died.

The cannibalistic axolotl
is a king of the night.

He knows everything in the world,
because he remembers the taste.

He knows when you need his experience,
but comes only to destroy
your paragons of virtue.

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.

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…

a meal-is-in-the-life

Like a festive meal:
a juicy piece of meat,
a knife is in the right,
and fork is in the left,
some greens and some appetite.

On your empty stomach,
the past,
the present,
and the future,
and lives,
and deaths,
and Holy Scriptures,
and unholy lies.

a virgin-empty collective mind, —
a peace of mind!

— Fanfares!
— Fanfares and fireflies!
— In sizzling late July!

to chew,
to process,
to digest.

— be careful, don’t rush!
— you know, you’ll better rush and choke!

and die.

— don’t look.
— it is much better be blind nowadays.

Wrapped into napkin,
buried and forgotten.

a maggot in the dirt.
another festive meal
or fest for others.

and plate, —
just a plate
and a few drops of sauce
on it.