Greek and Danish are nice and fair words, particularly when taking into consideration that one of them is bubbling merrily and given-awayly the now. Barbaric feta can’t stand for fitaki – but who cares? The bottom calls for the bystander which is now completely and thoughtfully devoid of any kind of its give-awayness. Another bottom is safely shielded with a knife and o! with two thirds of ready-for-consumption ambrosia topped with fuming constellations – so creamy and dreamy and melting within the lava of my tongue.
Revellingly an gloatingly killing and belating, it makes me and him and us imagine a molten autumn valley with heifers wandering around pondering over the bulls watching them impudently – what the fork are ya staring at?
That’s November spring: machos all lovey-dovey – couples spooning all along the boulevard. To die or not to live – an eternal non-question which makes us be – the rest is up to us indeed. We are always free to act – with the tiger’s bravery and willingness to engage in a battle – why should we let things happen their way? Submission and quiet might account for the denial of the oriental but…
Have you ever seen Shanghai at night, have you admired its nocturnal lights? It’s telling you a tale, a tale of the yore and the forthcoming. Have you wandered along those streets to feel the spirit of life – o! your soul would open there. Too many perfidious red lights’d be on, those obstacles are there to clear and I would not – the bottom is still bubbling.
Should I set it to emtying or let it flame? Definitely let it flame, let it burn the heart out of you with a greenish blaze of St. Patrick’s Day green bikini. Doesn’t matter, she can wear a green mini – have you made up your mind, mate? That’d be very well-doneish, I feel quite compelled to admit, but jeering away, it’s not about wearing, it’s all about underwearing. It’s all about bearing the underwearing. The exposed in disguise go and are happy and content up to the opposite’s contempt. The moments of pleasure are unique – catch them! – make the most of them, juicy, with aftertaste…
November 23, 2012
A leaf drooped and then seemed to have made no effort to break away and fall before them with such an instant of effrontery. The poplar was not to blame for that – the leaf should have been more faithful to the branch it had always stemmed from and could have stemmed from for tree-time to come, had it not been for its wildeish yielding-to-temptation philosophy which eventually led it to falling victim to ever-seducing wind. Good leaf! escaped freedom, well done! They walked on.
Naughty leaf! How dared it distract them from their mental brooding! At heart, the poor fellow enabled them to trump up a proper excuse not to brood for a while. So they hit upon whiling away their time under the poplar – the crowns of their heads leaning against the trunk – them taking a mirror posture. Not that they were benefitting sitting like that, but something could definitely come down like a bolt from the blue, from the tree.
– Like an apple on Newton?
– No, mate, it’s a poplar!
April 11, 2012
Angels will cry. And wine, weeping over mistakes I won’t regret, o’er unmistakes. Angels will disapprove of my wry… words. Whip it away from me and I’ll fade, following it, followed by you.
And yet angels will forgive me. No, they will not. It was a blunder… unforgivable. Nah, nah, it’s just in no shape or form that uncommitted stands any chance to be unforgiven.
Any way out? – madeira, please! One, two, three and four, my pacific stream of quietude is flowing and don’t you call a dam! The nectar of the colour of a golden harp flowing down my dry… throat. Goat, she-goat, no angs and easy. Angst! Angst! – complicated! Like garter and stockings, involved? With a bunch of arum lilies involved! And that’s what it requires – that and to dare. Easy – when? In retrospective. Nah, in perspective! It burns and is burning, wish I had something else to light. And yet it will never get extinguished.
Out of time to grab all my belongings and leave for that complicated. Out of eternity to live for that complicated. Chasing a hand of the clock for incomplete. And yet complete. Ah no, nay, never – to be completed.
March 26, 2012
Hoggish sun, stealing from me my skittish and jocose, womanlike shadow. Angelic cumuli… floating in the lazuline sea. Gently carried by ever-caressing Zephyrus. No names, no aliases – to be, to be!
Puff-puff – the cherubim have thinned away. They’ve gone, they’ll come – the opposites remain. The delicate bedsheet-white flakes will soon grow into majestic clouds to clad the empyrean. They might fall down afterwards to match every empire, like a man off a zebra. Off the one with mocha stripes. El signo de la vida, of proper life.
When nothing can be juxtaposed, life has its taste. Mmm… delicious.
March 24, 2012
That day the sky was intensely blue. And the smoke would contrast the future. There would appear its signs – amidst the twin-buildings opposite our glassy refuge. And it hung low and multi-storiedly, concrete, yet abstract. Then it would ascend, slowly, lazily, up and away. So cocky, nippling out, it pushed itself to do its best to make its way. Towards the azure projection of my inflamed soul, deep in its drowsy stillness. Mine turned into a mirror, to reflect it back into the stream of wheels. Both of us imbibing soothing salvatory mate, sipping at leisure the bebida through obscurely carved bombillas – slurp-slurp – who’s up there?
– Well, well, burlesque cirri seducing volcanoes, I guess.
March 19, 2012