To be close to the ocean
but cannot get your feet wet.
To the smell the salty air
but cannot breathe.
To see the crimson horizon
but cannot remember.
To see your dog lying next to you
but cannot pet him.
To conjure all the words for the ocean
but cannot write.
To sleep well all your life
but cannot dream.
To love someone all your life
but cannot have them.
When they ask you,
and I know they will someday.
Tell them it was for
the slice of sky
that smelled like your
tepid past, for nostalgia
reverberating as consensual
currents:
like a dream is forgotten
at the end of the night.
tell them it was for
the glimpse of nature:
the pregenable beauty,
for your assailable heart;
though after being enclosed
in those bony rib-cages,
I knew they would
melt every time
at the slightest touch of you.
It was for that touch.
tell them it was for
end of the everlasting hunger,
an conclusion to this unending madness,
to describe a whirlpool
of blurred visions,
emasculating every second
by the dark whispers in broad
daylight.
When they ask,
Why you started writing,
Tell them it was for yourself only.
For your demons and their exorcisms
performed ritually twice a day.
Tell them it would remain that way.
Forever and ever.
Dark hues deliquesce
in the warmth of the burning stars,
the black cosmic sea now floats:
but still an abomination in eyes
of people spoon-fed with light.
Coiling and encircling the unseen ends
on the horizon; like Jörmungandr, the mighty serpent,
while winds hymn odes for the people
who drank in chalices sprinkled with stardust
The language of Aeolian is now have forgotten.
the constrictions of the serpent shall bleed
morning light in a few hours.
I will wait for the revolutions to complete
while caressing its skin through the desire
in eyes.
Sometimes you lick my fingers, instead of doing what is to be done.
Sometimes I lick your nipples instead of doing what is to be done.
Sometimes we are not we, when nude.
Sometimes we are but not nude.
I keep remembering everything.
About that warm winter.
reverse the time gone,
as the rivers freeze to ice
and snow falls on skies
I am kid again
my dog is a pup today
let us sleep sometime
fires will turn to sparks
dreams shall slumber into sleep
let us fade to black
The cubicle welcomes you
come now sit, go through your e-mails
do your work proudly.
No! Don’t let your eyes wander outside,
it is just a beautiful tree in wind,
just a pond with ripples of water ,
There are no shapes out of them that you can imagine.
There are no memories in their shadows.
This silence ain’t whispering you to write.
Close the notepad.
Just don’t write a new poem again.
Don’t be maniacal.
You need caffeine,
to drift away from your thoughts.
Just fuck them, right?
You gotta work now.
Just don’t search now on the web,
How Hemingway blew his head,
How Sylvia path asphyxiated herself while
her children were asleep,
How Fitzgerald’s heart betrayed him,
How Kerouac died of cirrhosis,
How that old lazy fat fuck Bukowski
told you once to go all the way
otherwise don’t even try.
You are not one of them,
You shall not be one of them.
you are drinking your chaos within,
they all gave in,
they couldn’t drink it.
but you are drowning it in caffeine
and shitting out tons of work.
you shall survive.
if you want to.
But I know you won’t.
I can see it in your eyes,
so go on write then
as you always have.
Make it worth it.
Don’t drink the chaos within
Ever.
Writings to Heaven 