I could write you a beautiful poem,
yet one more,
as those many, my goodness, so many
I had written before.
.
It would run, sacramental and touching,
of your eyes,
that I dearly yearned to see glancing
Back at me – I hoped once.
.
Or this scent of yours. – Probably lilac?
and my want…
But, apparently, I can keep loving
All of you only then, if I don’t.
Show me how to be precious,
desperate, devious, hysterical,
быть восхитительно бешеной, –
woven between these lines
of some heretic simplicity
my overzealous mind
never could fully grasp.
Your intricate pattern:
this subtly feline
– indescribable –
line of your silhouette,
perfectly filling space,
maddens me out of my wits.
This delicate subtlety of
– ! your exclamation marks ! –
hidden
from unaware eyes,
bent to still question marks
over my pertinent fear
mixed with this stubborn anger,
spiced with unfulfilled longing,
drenched in endless coffee.
See me with those eyes of yours, –
the eyes of the Other –
see yourself in dissimilarity,
for I, too,
recognise
myself
– this new me –
in your eyes only.
As I
dance
across
the water edge
of freshly gained illusions, hopes, and wishes,
as I
flash
a smile
across
the chlor-free pages
of some thoughts, enwrapped in words and figures,
as I
touch
in passing
secret
backside
of your trained, well-balanced mind,
I am
almost
unafraid
to fly.
and still.
Don´t let me fall between the lines.
The one, who smiles nonchalantly
and replies to the stories of childhood anxieties
with that soft „that was long ago, ey?“ –
which suddenly works,
and you stumble and blink and – then at once, you can breathe again.
The one who stammers himself,
when touched deeper on his own demons,
as if no one ever cared to ask twice when he says everything´s fine.
The one, who steps up and draws back far too quickly
for my overcautious mind to react just in time.
The one who never comes too close and is never away,
who shares the tiredness, excitement, energy,
and cranial hunger of a raging spirit,
and yet fills you with that meek, quiet, and despicable peace,
that makes your every cell smile like a Cheshire cat,
the one who brings you light.
Gruesome
grinding,
greed of a
feverish! –
brain:
feed it, feed
again and again!
Starved, thus aggressive.
Insatiable hunger:
bitter sweet torture.
I am posessed,
Itching for wonder,
a puzzle,
a verve.
Tireless urge:
give me a piece to think!
Anything, any thing!
Addict, I burst,
Shaking, unnerved
In my infuriating
cognitive thirst.
Last Friday, just about noon,
When people pack and throw themselves
Out of their Windows and afloat into the rest of
one more weekend:
yet another more.
Last Friday, as I spread my wings and savoured
The early nauseating air of spring,
Spring, pregnant with unbearable beauty of the life to come,
with all the hope and hormones waking up,
while birds don´t trust themselves to sing. Not yet! It is too early!
Last Friday, stretched between the worlds,
between the words,
between my thoughts, so quick and ruthless,
between the common sense – and senses,
between the holy spring and holy Reason,
I desperately lost myself.
Take off your face and put it over there,
Beside the mirror. Right!
No pretence accepted.
Just look me in the eye,
Don’t speak, but listen, feel it in the air:
The perfect silence…
The heavenly present of muteness
Upon the lips that joke too eagerly and far too often,
Upon the mockery of human voices, high and low,
Upon the comedy of human drama.
The tears that never felt like weep,
for no one knows what proper tears feel like.
We learn to bear that cheerful empty face,
that crunches over senseless petty causes;
we know no longer why we came and where
shall we all go, –
And so we talk,
for talking cures the holes inside us,
oh, does it really? –
The holes that can’t be truly stitched by words.
Let us be quiet and inhale at last
This little blessing of
Letting them go: the masks, the words, the actions,
Just letting us be us,
and breathe,
and live.
Below the thunders of the peaceless mind,
Deep in the abyss, speechless and devoid of light,
Away from reason, undisturbed by thought,
There sleeps the Kraken of my troubled heart.
Unnumbered hordes of thoughts, so fair and neat
Pass by its silent numbness, shadowlike.
The faintest glimpse of Common Sense collides
Upon its deafening quietness and rhythm.
There have they lain and there shall they remain:
The never spoken truths between the lines,
Ink blotches of Irrelevance in my white lies.
Crushed over the threshold of my beautiful mind.
Like this weightless scent of cold and fir
Seeping through the closed doors on Christmas Eve.
Like a stubborn streak of water,
Leaking from beyond a damm.
So untimely,
Unwelcomed,
Unthinkable –
Oh Lord! Shouldn´t I
rather
Wear my cloak of despicable naivete,
of deliberate unseeing,
seeing past the obvious? –
Seeing past the scents,
the sense,
the essense?
I should, indeed.
Perhaps…
I starved my soul to mental anorexia,
Denying it food for months and months, and months
day by day,
peu à peu,
bit by bit.
Don´t take too much, sweet darling!
Don´t run that far,
be meek and petty,
finish the duty first
before you waste your time on creativity
of thought,
and hand
and feeling…
Don´t drift too far now
that you have found an anchor
to hold and to be held in bed at night.
There, there! No childish tears
here,
take a handkerchief!
Don´t be pathetic! Now,
why can´t you shut your restless eyes
effectively
and rest a bit? – forever –
… Oh, soo loong slumber has it been!
How comes I know no mass, poor stupid thing I am?
If I should go for bond and steadiness,
Well then I should be steady, mind no further mental cause
but how to polster best that little holy world of matrimonial oyster-shell of joy.
Why can´t I be as others are?
The soul too restless, and the mind too greedy tear me
from what my sense of social roles demand from me,
and
being
double,
triple,
multiple inside,
I´m full, but starving,
deaf, but hearing things
With cold numb fingertips I try to touch
here and there and over there
and end up
Being good at nothing.
