Bloody act

Two bodies wrapped in an embrace
in a tomb of glitter and frost
the blood lingers while they kiss,
then it pours gently down the legs
of the cradle surrounded by mist.

The lake of tears reflects the moon of sorrow
trembling, fluid, unpredictable;
their red eyes locked, unblinking,
while eternity replaces the morrow.

Vis-à-vis

Quiet and frozen
A reflection approaches
within the glass
I seek meaning
in a meaningless palace
of empty eyes and half-hearted smiles
Statues of philosophers vis-à-vis-
I stare them down
From expresionless to sad,
their face changes mood:
they empathise.

Neither pain
nor pleasure felt
My mindless mind projects
conflicting eyes
filling a void of thought and

I succumb.

Echoes

A silhouette merging with the unknown-
all that is left is your breath in the cold air
as you exhale in slow motion
I speak in shadows,
you respond with specters of light,
haunting every word-
making sense of it all;
I choose to live in the now,
but if you whisper in my ear
I will take decades to figure out
why you chose to disappear
that day
when I ran down the hallway-
gargoyles staring from above-
for a second I thought I could hear
another set of footsteps
under a different weight
even after I accepted your longing
for the other world.
The statues were grotesque,
threatening, demon-like in thunder and lightning,
and still, I hoped that hallway would never end
just so I could hear the sounds again and again
and convince myself they weren’t merely
echoes of my footsteps into the unknown.

Afterlife

I taste the blood of dehydrated lips,
admire the inadequately plucked eyebrows
above vapid black circles surrounded by
red on translucent white.
Dark hair, itchy like rope
against my neck,
frozen hands trembling,
features particularly thin:
I forgot how to live,
yet I laugh at my own sin.

Dantesque

She was standing by the window, her face seemingly puzzled by the familiar noise of trains rushing incessantly and birds making harpy-like sounds. It was really taking her back. Back to the days when she made connections between the number of the floor she was living on and the corresponding circle from Inferno, in hopes of attributing some grandiose meaning to her existence. Those were bleak times. It had to be the seventh floor. You were destined to dwell among the violent, submerged in boiling blood. Or the violent against self, being fed to Harpies. Harpies! Eyes shut for a few seconds. Opened again by the distant desperate sound of a cat in heat. I am here now. Rooted in the present, very rarely floating to the realms of the past and the future.

Words from years ago

the fragile
body and soul now shine
with a different light
and cast a different shadow:
the light of god,
the shadow of Lucifer.

Distracted by my flame,
I spilled some water in that little cavity
between you and me.
Your presence turned it into ice,
I stepped towards you
and broke my knee.

The clouds have invaded you
and you can’t let them go
your heart needs to be covered
She’s too fragile on her own
are alter egos your cup of tea
or hers?
you drink them fast,
she kills them slowly,
one by one,
until your heart is left unclouded
and that’s when it gets darker
and darker
until you start breathing in the ashes of carbonised hope
and let them infect the only thing that was ever clean
in your mind and in your hands: Innocence.

I miss the scent of your whispering skin at night
when you tell me you love
how I can be both you
and myself
in my head.

 

train of thought

You said to yourself that it was too cold and that was why you could barely function. It was either that, or the weeks-long stagnation of the spirit. You tell yourself you are going to get it right once and for all: have your own house with decorations that are most in tune with your identity, in a place that you can finally think of as a permanent home rather than a waiting room. You have been from one waiting room to another, and are unsure whether they lead anywhere, whether the process will ever end. You are also not terribly sure if you actually want it to end. You sometimes think that once you get past the waiting rooms, something will happen, something beautiful and pure and right. Something that will abolish the sudden moments of dramatic sadness, random urban alienation, those mood shifts, and reconcile the collapsing worlds. You will no longer think of your own passing, or that of those closest to you, no longer delve in scenarios of unhappiness out of masochistic urges, or in abyssal streams of consciousness.

The city, oh, the city. Sometimes you are the city, sometimes the city is in you, sometimes the city does not exist, or is something so detached from who you are, even as you pass right through its heart. The city in daylight and the city at night – such peculiar dualism to which your mindset adjusts, and which appeals to different beings within you, with different dreams and different nightmares.

You need success and fulfillment in order to open up. Is it right? It might be ingrained – inherited or caused by nurture. Unfolding at your most vulnerable seems impractical anyway, what a silly thing to do. Put up walls and let flowers climb them.

I ate everything I had in the house -red and purple fruits and chocolate, then I took the first train and stopped at the station where my train of thought decided to let me go. It was all empty, I smiled to myself, and nature witnessed. There is a journey ahead.