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