They haven’t seen each other for six hundred cups of bitter coffee. Millions of thoughts, outstanding and mediocre, have been blown away wastefully by the wind and carried high amid the dreaming spires of hopes and frustrations. Now he feels that time has played some wicked game with him, and he is no longer sure whether his senses are his own or he has been lured into experiencing them against his will…
He sniffed, desperately trying to make use of all his china lexicon with blue fringe with futile efforts to explain himself to himself. He definitely needed an assistant-interpretess who could turn his fragments of sentences into something understandable and tangible. For a long time he had known, now he did not and the spires beckoned threatening to turn out to be Mara-like.
It happened when he was walking down his favourite street – his thoughts in the sky, his feet on the ground, his body balancing somewhere amidst. It was one of the walks he took a delight in – self-examination, fatigue and the dumb cries art loudly. His muscles vibrated in sweet trembling, his eyes radiated joy, as if he anticipated something beautiful to bring light into his outspirited world of obscurity.
From the very early days he knew exactly what the work was, the sacred toil.
Vermillion curtains hide the irresistible – every ruffle underlines the whimsical nature of desire – the wavy outlines are every bit attractive – they appeal to your senses and you can’t help yielding to the dark red wild temptation setting to flames your profoundest sensations. Byron’s rhymes would lie down and not die, would sleep on the scarlet silky sulky sawdust and watch their rotten rot visions in their dreamless cinnabar slumbers. Awaken soul-shaken artists would letter blackly heartbleeding reading matter – no matter if bleeding – to shape rouge savage wine, a bursting fountain of yearning in a single goblet and let it flow – a crimson flower on a crimson table-cloth – a symbol of immense power.
A power to delay a Doomsday, which is rightfully hanging, is it, not, just standing there, counting, making mistakes, forgetting in her trade mark pre-dancery affectation. Leaning over our yesly paradise – she! green-clad goddess – o! ginger! Yes, yes, yes, she’s gone, I said, not for good at all, will pour that tinto good for me. I will. The cemetry of cigarette-stubs would cry over the departure – no more smoke: the ashes are dead white: don’t look into my eyes – they’d give away the yes! I look straight into the face of a back, back! in an after-dancery mood may well be. The eagless passes by elegantly – rossa! rossa! – but the only joy streams from the verdant deity – hellenized? yes! o ginger!
In lindens’ shade, in the heart of the right fierce past with a liberated tit in one hand and a glass in the other, all foggy and blonde. Would. Wish we had more geld in our pockets to let it go on and on – o, merry times – blessed times for floundering in the beauty – eau de la vie, yes and yes and one more yes to top it off!
12. 12. 2012
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
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