May 15
Here I am and there is my body dancing on glass In accident time where there are no accidents You have no choice the choice comes after
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Here I am and there is my body dancing on glass In accident time where there are no accidents You have no choice the choice comes after
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All night I hear the noise of water sobbing. All night I make night in me, I make the day that begins on my account, that sobs because day falls like water through night. All night I hear the voice of someone seeking me out. All night you abandon me slowly like the water that sobs slowly falling. All night I write luminous messages, messages of rain, all night someone checks for me and I check for someone. The noise of steps in the circle near this choleric light birthed from my insomnia. Steps of someone who no longer writhes, who no longer writes. All night someone holds back, then crosses the circle of bitter light. All night I drown in your eyes become my eyes. All night I prod myself on toward that squatter in the circle of my silence. All night I see something lurch toward my looking, something humid, contrived of silence launching the sound of someone sobbing. Absence blows grayly and night goes dense. Night, the shade of the eyelids of the dead, viscous night, exhaling some black oil that blows me forward and prompts me to search out an empty space without warmth, without cold. All night I flee from someone. I lead the chase, I lead the fugue. I sing a song of mourning. Black birds over black shrouds. My brain cries. Demented wind. I leave the tense and strained hand, I don’t want to know anything but this perpetual wailing, this clatter in the night, this delay, this infamy, this pursuit, this inexistence. All night I see that abandonment is me, that the sole sobbing voice is me. We can search with lanterns, cross the shadow’s lie. We can feel the heart thud in the thigh and water subside in the archaic site of the heart. All night I ask you why. All night you tell me no.
https://www.instagram.com/l.for.limbo/
THE WIND WAS BLOWING FROM THE LEFT
Οne day, at the end of the future, Ι will wake up in a certain smell. I will stretch out my left hand and touch your left rib, there will be a sound that includes some Greek letters and I will get up to pee. And when I come back, my face will have a certain expression. Only one. The opposite of fear. And Ι 'll sit and write a poem while smoking making sure the lighter doesn't make any noise because your sleep has always been and will always be so sacred to me. And when I have written the poem I will again think -oh this is the greatest stupidity in the Balkans, and I will come back to be, half-quiet , half-disappointed. I will reach out my left hand and touch your elbow I will stretch my right leg and touch a cloth. Your trousers on our bed. (You left your trousers on our bed ) and my little toe will tangle in your belt. and in the morning when we wake up I'll make a pouty face and point my little toe at you and say " ooooh you forgot your trousers in our bed, look how badly I hurt" and we'll laugh at my excess and all the greenery of our love will be a pair of jeans in our bed, and an infinitesimal mark on my little toe, and that's how life will begin every day. with whatever we forgot in bed the night before. This, and this alone will define the quiet greenery of our love. ( and when I wrote this I went to bed fully disappointed because I knew I had written the greatest stupidity in the Balkans)
I flora you you fauna me I flesh you I door you and window you you bones me you ocean me you courage me you meteor me I gold key you I extraordinary you you paroxysm me you paroxysm and paradox me I harpsichord you you silently me you mirror me I wristwatch you you mirage me oasis me you bird insect cataract me I lunar you you cumulus me you high tide me I transparent you you twilight me translucent me you empty castle and maze me parallax and parabola me you horizontal and vertical me you oblique me I equinox you I poet you you dance me I particular you you perpendicular and mezzanine me you visible me silhouette me you infinite me indivisible me you irony me I fragile you and ardent you I phonetically you you hieroglyph me you space me and cascade me I cascade you in turn but you you fluid me you comet me you volcanic me we pulverize each other we scandalously each other night and day we each other this very day you tangent me I concentric you you soluble me you insoluble me you asphyxiating and liberating me you heart-beat me you dizzy me ecstasy me you passionately and absolute me I absent you you absurd me I nostril you hair you and hip you you haunt me I breast you I chest your breast then guise you I corset you you odor me you dizzy me you slide I thigh you caress you I quiver you you stride me you unbearable me I amazon you I throat you stomach you skirt you garter you stockings you I Bach you yes I Bach you for harpsichord breast and flute (ii) I trembling you you seduce me absorb me I dispute you I risk you I climb you you skim me I swim you but you, you swirl me you graze me you circle me you flesh leather skin and bite me you black lace me you red slipper me and when you do not heel my senses you crocodile them you whale them you fascinate them you cover me I discover you invent you sometimes you uncover yourself you moist lips me I deliver and delirious you you delirious and passionate me I shoulder you and vertebra you I ankle you eyelash and pupil you and if I do not scapula before my lungs even after you armpit me I breathe you night and day I breathe you I mouth you I palate you I tooth and claw you vulva and eyelid you I breath you groin you blood you neck you I calves you I certain you I cheek and vein you I hands you sweat you tongue you nape you I sail you I shadow you I body and ghost you I retina you in my breath you iris yourself I write you you think me
For you, my love I went to a bird market And I bought a bird For you My love I went to a flower market And I bought a flower For you My love I went to a junk market And I bought a chain A heavey chain For you My love And I went to a slave market And I searched for you But I couldn't find you anywhere My love
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”love being such, or such, the normal corners of your heart will never guess how much my wonderful jealousy is dark”
A swollen left hand is usually a swollen left hand. Inside a swollen left hand there is a whole world. Tear me, open me, see deeply,
everything is empty, withered, scattered, in bloom, dead and alive, a mad dance of everything, everything dances with everything, everything dies and everything is born depends on whether the moon appears during the daylight
the endless secret… it is always there but we can’t see it it is always beautiful but don’t fool yourself there is no light there I have learned to love its darkness its reflection, its lies oh these lies
like the sound of the sea inside a shell I used to place my ear there, trying to listen to the waves oh this big lie I have spent my life trying to listen to the sea a failure all these falsehoods our whole life a constant falsehood, a sequence of beautiful lies
place your ear in my belly button can you hear the ocean of my desire? the scream of my nightmarish fears? my visceral sorrow? my excessive excitement? my sprouting anger?
what about my orgasms waiting in the queue? can you hear them? one behind the other, sometimes patiently lined up, sometimes pushed and arguing over who will pass first tell me can you hear that? oh tell me what you hear
come, let us patiently stay in each other, let us open each other, to see what is inside us, come, do not hurry, it is still too early, everything is fighting us, frightened conclusions are flying over our heads, scratching us, leaving us wounds, let’s wash each other’s wounds, stay inside me and look, oh do not hurry, you have not seen anything yet, this is just the introduction.
Is your right eye ready for the first chapter?
The Ballade of Fat Margot Because I love and serve this beauty gladly, you must think I’m blind or completely mad but she has charms to please the finest palate; for love of her I’d strap on shield and dirk. When the men arrive, I hop and fetch a pot; I get the wine without a lot of racket, I bring them bread and water, cheese and fruit, and if they pay well I call out “Bene stat! and come again, next time you’re in rut, to this old whorehouse where we hold court.” From time to time, there’s an epic clash, when Margot comes to bed with no cash: I can’t even look at her, I hate her to death, I snatch up her dress, her surcote and belt, and swear to her I’ll pawn them for my cut. Hands on her hips, that little Antichrist wheezes and howls and swears by the death of Jesus that I’ll do no such thing. So I grab up a plank and write a blunt reply across her nose, in this old whorehouse where we hold court. Then we make up and she cracks a huge fart (no toxic beetle ever puffed worse) and, laughing, hammers her fist on my crown. “Go! Go!” she calls, with a slap on my rump. Then, both of us drunk, we sleep like a log. And when we wake, with her belly rumbling, she’s not about to waste her fruit: she climbs right on and I just lie there, squashed flatter than a board. Her lechery will be the death of me in this old whorehouse where we hold court. Come wind, hail, or ice, my bread is baked. I’m a dirty old man and a slut’s what suits me. Which one is worse? We’re a match, like unto like: bad rat, bad cat. Filth is our calling and boy does it call us; Virtue runs when it sees us, and we run from it, in this old whorehouse where we hold court.
