Wounded Bat

It was a blank fall of night,
I was loitering, sad and tired
when a wounded bat
blackened my sight,
its battered condition
knocked at my heart

At last there was
a clear, loud
clack clack
in my head
where the bat had wrecked.
And when I climbed, wounded, my bed
evoking a prayer, or an amend,
the cut clutter of the animal’s cry
was my lullaby.

Willows With Damp Dying Sighs

Tears
falling in a warm race.
Grief
enrolled into decency of grace.
Anxiety
noticed by my side.
Sobriety
locked hidden inside.
Understanding
what true distance is.
Realizing
that to leave is to miss.
Love
is my calling.
Lava
that keeps awing.
Alternatives
fused with waste.
Repetitives
of no taste.
The self
becomes a privacy-ranger.
A shelf
that stores a personal stranger.
Windows
to be looked into are eyes.
Willows
with damp dying sighs.

White Crescendo

And the sky darkens,
and the voices become pale,
and thy life ? that brief candle
– is languishly dying away.
While the Light brightens.

And from the biased beyond
creeps out a decrepit Messiah.
So languid is thy crescendo,
so potent His desire
for thy mortal pond.

And thy mistery whitens,
and the voices within walk succinct
and speak with frequent stumbles.
And thy physique framed into a sphinx
frightens.
And all is vacancy ill,
and every silhouette latent
but one,
Messiah or Satan,

whose beauty is His tedious beam.
And deep thy fear, as sardonic
as the outrageous fortune’s quiz.
Thou wouldst die dreading the existence
or exist dreading the decease.
A sabotage on His will, platonic.

And no time to cognitate
except the time to close
the thought-machinery’s whim
while thy undereyes bluntly browse,
scenting a glossy gate.

And the blue is broken,
and white is the scene,
with thy own voice vain and void,
keeping still the mem’ries of thy green.
And the exit bidsopen.

Untitled

There are other things
which I have to deal with daily,
lowering my spirit
and, very likely
shortening my line of life.
One of them is the smoking devil,
from 4 to 7 portions daily
on my own or accompanied.
This is not a consequence of stress,
rather prevention from a nervous breakdown.
The stress, however, circulates
in my utmost private sphere,
continually supplied.

Morning after morning I wake up,
covering my worries by make-up,
wishing I were somewhere else,
even back in the dream, I wouldn’t mind.
Instead, I put on my solitary shoes,
heading towards work,
my heart dancing half jazz half blues.
Still, the morning breeze does do me good.

Measuring the way to the office,
I keep escaping the sight of passers-by.
From a certain time I can’t stand
anybody’s glance.
The streets’ looks are preserved,
unlike mine.
So many reflections on my mind,
but not a pinch of logic.
So much room in my heart,
exposed to a contribution of magic.
I am exhausted by the time
my feet reach the morning terminal.
The air is clear, and I am fine –
don’t want anyone to worry,
so I shall mime.

At work I am kept busy
most of the time.
But as soon as I’m not occupied
the eyes relax into a cry.
Before, the tears preferred the privacy
of my room.
Now they don’t bother to hide.
Going back home, the same way seems eternal.
The air has altered, too –
its odour smells of a dark blue.
The rest to me is vacantly external
a substance as viscous as glue.

This is me getting self-punished:
to watch the sun and the moon
taking their turn.
The senses blare, the eyes burn.
Nights are, nonetheless, inviting,
for the sake of the stars above.
In their glare, pacified by their charms
I dare propose the unheard-of to God.
If He hears me He might reply.
Until that happens
I shall be watching
the two protagonists of the sky
go up and go down.

Through a sip of punch

How good I have myself,
and you in me –
it’s much more exhilarating
with four of us
in this patience made of glass.
My soul is punch
and we its pieces of fruit
sinking
down to the bottom, heavy,
heavy in the aquarium filled with wine.
Juicy goldfish
I am putting on a tablespoon –
cold,
decided,
to be buried within
piece by piece.

/1 December 2003/

this startled horse, my life

this startled horse, my life

takes me far, boom-backing

in spirals

twisting around, the choleric kind

and when I’m dropped

it tugs me along, roped

I feel each bump of the world

while I spin, focused on a him

plotting some sense

on the ride so immense

in a couple of ways

and there are no reins

to these steep days

There is a park

There is a park,
its trees are as if painted
by a favourite hand.

There are no children visitors.
The only human guest
has planted his own trees
so that he can take a shelter
in their shade
to rest from the torrent of his self-thoughts,
to lie low from the sun of his not-knowing wife.

There are two ponds in this park-
one lavish with water-lilies,
the other with none.

And the birds – those nesting
in the guest’s trees
are couriers of porn.

There is a park,
its grass has blades that itch
and blades that scorn.
The earth beneath remembers
all lies of the falling leaves
and every single spring’s lonely seeds.

/26 February 2007/

The Trial Within

You and your words of active approaches.
You and your escalator routines.
Have you fed all the little chicken of your greed for today?

And what exactly is it you fight against
elbowing your way through the lifestyle of the mass?
Can’t you see the enemy is inside your head?
Inside your head!
He is right there – planting bad seeds
in your fertile hemispheres.
Just look at yourself – already thoroughly worthless
though the seeds are still only baby plants.

So what are your four eyes telling you to see?
Who is the enemy?
I’ve asked you to put out that misconcepted ambition
a thousand times, a thousand times you’ve put out me.
You, your words of active approaches, projecting
the evergreen of rehash orders
while the enemy is getting up to his harvest soon
his harvest
inside your head!

The Ring Game

I thought I’d play the game
of turning the ring again,
for it might work out this time
I hoped, shivers down the spine.

But the ring engaging me to think
longingly of my be-loved
always turns the magic wrong.

I’ve been seeing jackals
upon each closing of the eye.
I’ve been laying down
with heart-charlatans.

And there are never any flowers
in this vase I wear.
I guess I’m past the season
once again, or forever?

I’ve tried to calm down
many times, many lies
must be brides to this single silver.

It seizes my finger raw
like some jaded paranoia.
I look at it, and it looks back.
It locks the finger and it locks the neck.

Between the moments of enclosure
I tend the few gay memories left,
tempted to test the ring game anew,
the wish-haunted fool.

/6 June 2004/