Death Afraid

The street is silence.
No mistake there.
Is it dark?
It is.
It is dark.
Actually, it’s pitch black;
The evening and the night led this huge assault,
And left the daylight lying in her own pool of blood.
As usual.

And the cats crawl and brawl,
Waiting for the curtain call.

In an old house in the corner, a sickly bulb is on:
Under it, a young man, a student is there;
His head hurts,
As his brain is covered with a thick mist of lust.
But he doesn’t know that.
He longs for the night, though he dreads it at the same time;
Leave him there, he won’t know for a while.
Let’s go out:

The gaze scatters the cats around –
They are pissed off;
You could tell from the eyes…
Whatever.
Hear?
The anxious steps of a lone girl
comes hurrying down the street.
She throws a quick, trembling glance
Up at the bulb, but then goes on her way,
Behind her, leaving footmarks dipped in red
Disappearing around the corner.
Red?
Oh, yes, by the way, where is the body of light?
Where is the corpse of the day?

And the cats crawl and brawl,
Waiting for the curtain call.

The piercing sirens of an ambulance
Carrying what’s left of a little life
Reflect on the empty gazes of the apartments.
One sibling shrinks away for a second:
is it possible that she may come back?

“Not in my watch!” cries the student in the room,
Finding a firefly trapped between the hands of the hour and the minute;
And time goes on with the inevitability of a knowing hand
going between two smooth legs around the corner;
a dying bulb in mind, a squeal escapes the lips, bouncing off a sweaty bed,
then hopping out of the open window
To meet the first yawn of dawn…

And the cats crawl and brawl,
Waiting for the curtain call.

The bulb dies in the room;
The smooth legs lay still;
The fire of the fly flickers one last time.
The two siblings know what it is to come:
The dark one knows it is his time to die;
The light one knows it is her time to live.

And the cats come to a standstill,
Eagerly licking their paws,
while their yellow eyes scream:
Life kill death!
Life kill death!
Life kill death!

time well spent

the burst of pain comes through the hole;
a bead of sweat mingled with a tear
escaping its loose prison as you close your eye
falls down on your knee,
sharing a mutual saltiness which remind you
previous night's unrepentant pleasures
and unfulfilled promises
and tell-tale lies told into people's pupils,
without blinking an eye who has witnessed
a life full of ever burning half lives
including its owner's.

something is on fire.
is it your life?
or,
your ass hole?

liarsong

when people lie
there is a physical reaction:
skies hark;
lillies die.

(and walls crumble
and tears fall
and roads twist
and leaves crawl)

when poets lie
there is a physical reaction:
filthy thumbs throb
kinky dead sing
dirty windows wake
and petty loves stink

(and walls crumble
and tears fall
and roads twist
and leaves crawl)

when lovers lie
there is a physical reaction:
the shepherds sing
and minds bawl
and lepers kiss
and poems stall--

hkufavtr

i wish i was a
(fall poet singing leaf and)
tale in ba sing se

the late summer

ah, here it comes:
like an impending heatwave
mentioned on the news, by a friend,
between the sweaty sheets of two lovers
blasting through the skies
albeit with a girlish elegance
showering one body with rays of gold,
as his steps come out of his mind
for the first time in a long time.
and you know what, then he looks around
and sees his body in this world
feels the irrepressible scream of a seagull in his heart
hears the children's careless thoughts wandering in the streets
and yes! yes! he looks around:
as this tender shining beckons him kindly,
he raises his head,
and bows and his brows relax;
he blinks his eyes once, very slowly...
and he says, he says,
- eyes closed, lids covered by bliss -
this is going to be my mind,
at last;
this is going to be my world,
at last;
this is going to be my day,
at last!

monologue?

i won't die, i suppose?
this is my history, after all
i liked looking at the sunshine
and i liked smiling at people
sometimes, i hoped for a good day
once a year, i cried for a friend
and i longed for a long holiday
without any care, at all.

i won't die, i think?
i made people smile?
i made people think?
then again, i made people cry...
insisting my love meant everything.

i won't die, i hope?
still, i've got people to kiss?
and have my lovely dog to pat!
i've got someone's tiny butterflies in my huge tummy
and most importantly,
still haven't read the sound and the fury!

i won't die!
you hear me?
this is my history!
i am the one who writes it,
and i will be the one to end it!
whether you like it or not-
oh, my, god.

daydream

smile interrupted on the stroll?
head looks to a side:

what heartbreak! what fear!
ebbing from
a disconsolate figure
of a man standing there
looking you in the eye
meaning well, maybe?
possibly, possibly.

know him;
about, heard
of, thought and
recalled
retrospectively
constructed
shared
memories
preserved like derided souvenirs
bought nonchalantly
but increasing in value sinisterly
day by day
minute by minute
moment by moment...

...and now, this man, whose sorrow
your doing,
hears with those broken eyes of his:
what tranquillity... what solace...
what you have, he has not;
what he feels, you do not.

so you still smile,
so miniscule a flinch in your gait
while subtly waking up from this sudden day time slumber
having just felt the soft squeeze on your arm
coming from your sweet new lover.