Oysters devoured raw with lemon,
the sun turning burned orange, its warmth
slips teasing my citrus lips,
The tongue of fire,
tell me once,
Is this all real:
silence amidst unquestioning brightness.
Would I not relapse, into the same room again
with a finished pinot noir on the floor?
the tongue needing a flood,
lungs: a river of smoke
and the heart: a sea of troubles.
SB
The morning lights do not dissolve for me.
I don’t know how you all do it,
It becomes a rain of a million unapologetic needles,
ruffling my hair, the scalp and the bored skull.
Damned, be they, Damned be the generosity for its alluring brightness.
These eyes have forgotten to shut down early.
The madness has been accumulating
ounce by ounce.
Like a cat ready to pounce with its warm toes
on the dead freezing body
to taste the cold with its tongue
in successive unforgiving licks.
The madness pounces in the morning.
I have become used to these never-ending work shifts,
by driving a dying car to a dying place,
in a dying body.
I have become used
to the half-baked bacon burgers,
to the caffeinated miseries.
There is no end to it.
There will never be.
Just a beginning exists.
Just a light that wrecks the day.
After every dooming night.
I got used to it.
Eventually,
I became generous
for the little ounces of madness,
to survive.
SB
A sky sculpted of silence,
At behest of a voiceless cry,
Somebody awaits my hymns again.
My tongue swirls itself :
A snake bathing in the burning blood.
The same nightmare again,
Where my veins smell of dead flowers.
The eyes turn into a vehement dark pond.
A feast of wingless ravens, slowly eating themselves to death :
My heart wasn’t that useful anyways.
Come close today , Stay.
Taste this macabre
Lick it of my lips
SB
Writings to Heaven 