cycles 2

i return to the scene of the crime. emotion. pure emotion. exhaustion settles in. exhaustion. it is time that you know that i fell in love yesterday with a dead man who was impotent when alive, and with another dead man who was homosexual. by now you know that the sex lives of dead men interest me more than the sex lives of living men. men, just men. it's a men's world, and i have never known another world. women are an invention for the weak, the coward and the spineless. women, like god, are dead from too much veneration and too much oppression. god, like women, is dead. it does not take a professed philosopher to make such a statement, it takes an ignoble ego concocted from frustration and repression to declare the death of all identity.

then there was last night, and again you flirted with that tormented and ignoble ego that i carry around. you make me feel that i am standing on the edge of that abyss of intimacy that you are promising me. you make me want to go again at the break of dawn for a walk along the river, to listen to the crows and smell the moon's whispers.

the warrior returns to details. the ego denies all.

questions

where are you, she asked.

he was silent. he is always silent.

she insisted, he insisted, they stayed.

what are you, he asked

she was silent, she is always silent.

he insisted, she insisted, they remained.

silver, marble and water.

fury and freedom

i have not been at this place for a while. i like hell, and i like dark places. intensity has been missing. i speak in staccato, or i do not speak at all. i give imperatives, or i do not give at all. discovery is miracle, and invention is salvation. i do not believe in anything at all!

it is one of those days when all that i can think of is rocks. rocks, not oxford cloth. rocks. it is one of those days when a migraine is a blessing, and penury is a beach resort. life is good, i fight. i am blind! blind. totally blind.

undone

truly undone.

all undone.

you were here one day, and gone the next.

a memory remains.

a faint memory.

i do not want any of what i am feeling now.

i am feeling memories.

it is time for a burial.

perversion

pure. now. i woke up and my first thought turned to you. i must write, you are my fiction and without my fiction, i do not exist.

i like sunny days up in the mountains, walking on the snow, slipping on the ice underneath. feeling my body tense up and then reminding myself of the total futility of that reaction of tensing up. if there is one skill that i command, it is the one of slipping and falling. the primate imprinting is mine too, but somehow that is no consolation. this primate would rather be god, not human!

sleeping with demons

my mind is too cluttered for poetry. i have been sleeping with my demons, going to bed with the devil, and copulating with insecurity. thus my prose... riddled in muddle, ambiguity, and utter incredulity.

that is about the shape of things in the place that i find myself right now. i love it. it is like standing on the edge of the grand canyon and loosing all sight of perspective and distance. how far are those ridges, how far are those abysses? near of close?

yesterday i cried of sadness, and i was happy. i can still see in my minds eye how it felt to sit there curled in that designer chair near the university, and just feeling the warmth that sadness embraced brings, i called it happiness. it was awfully delightful, and it made me think of nothing in particular, i just felt surrender.

internal

i do not like your doubts when i am sure i do not like your hesitation,

i do not like your doubts when when i am determined.

i do not like your deception

i do not like your lies, they feed my fears,

i do not like your ways.

but who are you?

you are part of me. you are mine, all mine.

who else would caress your roughness? who else takes you in when you have been beaten?

but why do you feel hurt at my tears of joy?

have we not been good friends?

remember when you saved me once or twice?

am i the great ungrateful?

why do you not just accept my joy?