luni, 30 martie 2009


It pains so much to fancy you
To need you, though this is what they call being alive
Though in my vanity,
I do dunk my canines in the serum of my love
Of all my rabid spiteful crimson
Since I'm ill-skilled at being human
I never was too good in school
A solemn bust of paint and clay
Covered in postcards, which you sent to me
From foreign doings
From aftermaths of foreign memory
From your stilted rejections of me
Throughout the role-plays carried in my third eye
I'm seeing you close and quiet
Ochre highways of empathy, a selfless thumb bouquet
Towing literacy out of my shrill
And spreading its luxury on my lips
A kind donation, my heart
My speech, cleansed of its handful of veils
A roll call of kernels from all three tenses of me.
My third eye makes a Cyclops of my being
For thus I only see the relevance in us
And in it we are each of our two genuine selves:
The I
And the You and I
One truth combined with another equal mysticism
A particular aura of gold and pallor
Sprayed with utmost surprise
The bare feet of history
Gaining size through its centuries and deserts
I love you
Or maybe I just love the wisdom in our lachrymal round
I shall become oblivious of waiting
Time will turn our language in a stutter
The I of our twosome will be cold case as well
How morbid of both of us to leave me behind
How gloomy of both you and I to lose your trace meanwhile
How sad to go on as thin air
I wish you would call, regardless of when.

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