Poem: On this line

On this line, my life I live –
on the line between the thunder
and peace –  known and
the thrill of erratic – between
the mercy of the sun and
the spectacle of lightning …

it is the glory of white waves
and naked body of a virgin in
which the ruin of a man comes
adorn in the scent of mystery …
hungry for fresh blood and
juicy sweat – awakening the
ancient hunter – for which a
man’s willing to surrender the
peace of his Eden?

or is it the delight of the rain
and the shadow of the clouds
in which a man, a husband
a wife … a mother … can lay
down her bones and skin
burnt
by the laughter of
the sun

 

Notes from a diary, 19/05/2020

Why … what is this force that woke him up this night and led him into the arena of gladiators starving to kill, starving to bite, starving to chew?  … billions of eyes watch this poor man entering the coliseum full of men with muscular tongues – tongues sharp as the arrow of Paris, poisonous as the venom of the black widow. And they all wait, behind their screens, they wait … their eyes turn red in the blue light of their screens as they keep waiting for that one man that comes in with nothing but the truth.
A moment …
… and the chopping begins.
Freedom of the speech floats in the room but respect has long ago left the stage –
there’s a fire of the media which will burn him alive, and there are mothers that will bite his meat off with their screams, and all those intellectuals, liberals, saloon leftists and democrats with their marble mockery ready to scratch his nerves with their perverted faces, white men and their laugh with the cries of disgust to push him around with their meat of bloodlust slaves, …
as he watches how they spit his blood upon the sand of arena starved women, women paid to be raped will come to lick with salty tongues his wounds, kiss them, lick them, push his worn face into their white breasts – breasts wet of the sweat, soft of the sleep … keep licking his wounds with their salty tongues … keep licking to the last spasm of the truth … until he surrenders to his own tongue and hands hungry for this odious meat … hungry for the sweat, beaten by the crowd in the search for understanding in the search for love …

And I wonder why … what force wakes a man up in the middle of the night and makes him walk into the ring full of bloodlust gladiators …

 

Notes from a Diary, 18/05/2020

In this deafening sound, my pain is hidden – in the white net of these waves, my past is spread … whispering me all those words already spoken, and this salt in the air – broken glass gently cutting into my skin – letting me bleed slowly … like this rock, I let time to carve me into the glorious shape of abandonment. There is no turning back from where I am now. There are no words that will bond us, no mask to hide our faces … for there is a fear dividing us – fear wide as this sea, as the ocean … Tide is rising and I need to hide from your screams and your eyes … from your holy cows.
For you’ll paint the blood over this silver sky, you’ll paint with screams this deafening voice of waves. You’ll put a mask over my laughter, you’ll imprison me for my love … for my kiss …
the violence of a man is again on the march.
It comes in a dress of care, in a dress of guardian …
our guardian is a fascist with a smile of a whore – coloring this silver sky with paint of their chains and screaming the fear into this deafening voice of the waves

Do not smoke do not eat meat
do not drink do not breathe
do not go out
do not kiss
do not hug
do not touch

but work.
Work you yeast fed animal.
In the name of health!
Work!

“All work and no play makes a Jack dull boy”

…and kill

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Poem: I waited

Abandoned by the people
sea dances in the coming rain;
on the horizon – a storm
a guardian angel of these waves;
and I waited …. waited
for my fingers
to again feel the blood –
for the thunder,
for the lightning,
for the fear …
for my own heartbeat.
Frozen in the hope
I waited
for a picture of Dali to come
to life … picture,
caged in cold,  marble museum.
And canvas was this horizon
And canvas is this body of mine
in which hurricane is boiling up,
in which the death sentence
beats to life …
as silver sky enters my eyes,
soft tears of heaven gently
touch my skin.
And that’s all there is …

Poem: Beating knot of pain

inside my chest … a knot;
a beating knot of feelings, of
fears, of memories,
of tears – glued
with your words, your looks
your rules … with a creed;
in the nights – stealing
my air – stealing my dream
at 4:59 am;
and every day,
like sea worms disguised
in colorful costumes
new threads slide down
my throat – sea worms, feeding
on the flesh of my thought, on
feathers of my wings –
I swallow them
for I don’t want to
hate you, I don’t want to
lose you, I don’t want to
… and every day I swallow new threads,
my friends, my sisters …
turning
my heart into beating
knot of pain

 

Poem: The Storm

Like the tranquility of the blue
sky after a heavy storm, so are we
adorned into pretense peace –
and I know, thunder will never cease

hail of your insults will again hit
my flesh, and the lightening of my
screams will choke in rivers of your rain –
unbearable tension … again and again

and nothing but an illusion, this blue
sky in the morning sun when eyes
shine brighter washed by the tears –
and we will go on … for thousands of years

until our veins turn into rocks of blood
and our mouth: nothing but a hole in our
skin … shaped under the pressure to conform
into sacks of the desert …  thirsty for the storm

Notes from a diary, 07/05/2020

The air is filled with words that are flying around, crawling under our feet, each one grabbing us with its sharp teeth, biting our heart, invading our brain where it will lay eggs of new words that will feed on our own thought: eating it until all that is left of us is fear – the frightened beasts on steroids.

……….. breath … stay positive … think positive … positive … pos … it … ive …

A supporter of Hitler told me not to be so negative, to stop ruining his day by my pessimism. Stop ruining it and go back to work. He told me to be Zen. To think positive and positive will happen. I went back to scrubbing toilets. Luckily for me, Saturdays are my days off and I can attend the organized protests for dignity. Positive. I can burn some cars, I can fulfill my bloodlust in fights with the police demanding that my boss pays me more, gives me more days off, etc. I will demand that in the streets with thousands of others. After a week of scrubbing toilets. Positive. On Monday we will all return to work. Happy, satisfied full of adventures to share with our coworkers. Adorned by the light of a true warrior, a true hero. On Monday my boss will cut my days off and will lower my salary. Positive. I will keep scrubbing toilets and feed the rage in me … I will breathe it in, positive rage, preparing the speeches which will blow my coworkers’ heads out. Looking forward to Saturday when again I will burn some cars and maybe this time get arrested. Positive. In prison, I will beg them to let me out because on Monday I have to go to work. Positive. I will call my boss on Monday begging him to forgive me. I will promise to work 12 hours extra without payment. He forgave me. Positive. They let me out. Positive. I go back to scrubbing toilets even more hero alike … can’t wait for Saturday … Positive. I feel like Che-Guevara. I wear a t-shirt with his face. I bought it in H&M. On sale. Positive. Made in Bangladesh. Hasta la victoria, singing Bella Ciao. Positive.

And I will never figure out what is wrong with this picture.

thank you Spenser for the photo