The world, lately, has been black and white;

with a touch of transparency,

in the shape of nude wings,

filled up with empty carafes.

Today, she chose to hide,

while he picked foolishness

over the childhood fairytale, over purity.

She, in reverse, cherished the Parisian sky

and the wrinkles as she smiled.

The true moment came their way eagerly, merrily.

Flooded into their ghostly robes;

into their lonely dawns.

The words failed her this morning,

left her existence unnoticed,

and suddenly she felt the fragrant

coolness of being hidden.

What bliss.

S

The smoke curls up high

above her, fading out in the cold.

Her virgin little heart is still;

and the cruel poison beats

horizontally, vertically.

She chews on the blue candies;

swallows the strike of the words;

drinks up the bruised thoughts

and the whole river;

behind her flesh, behind her blood.

And me, I’m simply there,

switching between Chinese blues

and lovers in Japan –

desire pulls through me

and I search for ways to express.

S

The eyelids started to open
one after the other;
witnessing the early birds
and the mascara stains on the pillowcase.
Fighting the nightmare of the chimney guy;
restoring the lovemaking stories.

Yawn.

The light is still blinking –
after all these years, she wonders.
The never-ending blinks tell her everything
but don’t tell her anything.

Yawn again.

The alarm goes off –
How desperate; how annoying.

Snooze.

And again, it goes off.

Is it the art of sound that matters to her
or perhaps the shape of anxiety?

Stop.

She rises – calling his name out loud.
She puts a new postcard
on the mirror and goes crazy
for the reflection of her face.
Then reads the same love letter
written by her hero; by the love of her life –
knowing all the words by heart.

The door is open.

Bang.

The door is shut.

She feels the flakes on her dried-out skin,
and the freshness of the northern wind.
She catched the very
first train and puts the
“last train” on repeat.

S

I dreamt of this poem

on the plane coming back from

la ville lumière.

I begged you and the tree leaves

and her and the glory in his gaze

to be(come) my inspiration.

I came from uncertainty

where there was no remedy.

I flew back for more;

for the ultimate.

I am now back my friend,

inspired, as I am.

By the rain coming down hard

on the same cobblestones of the old town

and the smoke in the air

coming out of the cigar, blending

with the scent of the fresh rosewater.

By the smell of the café crème.

and the baguette crumbs in the same old place;

by the small coins and the big smiles

waiting for garçon de café;

by the shine on his moccasin in burgundy.

By the heart of the poor;

by the frown of the killer

and the dusted books on the shelves.

By the golden antique ring shining

on her chip-nailed fingers.

By the light at the end of the tunnel;

and the unfinished stories

still hanging in the history that we both belong to.

By his emptiness;

by her being who she is inside

and by my own refreshed heart and soul.

Sweetness,

I will be back

with more;

for more

and

much

more.

S

Tonight the moon wasn’t at its fullest

and I finally felt close to its emptiness.

Tonight I stood tall in front of the lights

witnessing poetry, dancing to the unspoken words;

jumping high, reaching for the starless sky

and miles away, her bones and skin mourn

for him, whose patriot heart stopped

beating against brutality.

S

– Have a good night.
– I’m getting off too.

Zooming up to the sky,

and the fake stars

are spinning around

her blemished eyes.

She draws a giant circle

above them all,

fills it up with

the whitest white

and grayish dots.

Begging to forget

the agony of

the bastard

sad songs.

She smiles and frisks

then frankly lies;

sings along,

getting high.

She flies and

falls deep in heart;

inks her soul with

butterflies

and paper cuts.

Feels them all

and buries them

in sleep, in a life

ever after.

S

Rewind.

I find myself among a million non-existent lovers,

rushing to their beloved or to the rainbirds, and

I’m standing in stillness, admiring the yellow line,

minding it beneath my mind’s shutter.

Where will I stand in the next

forty eight hours?

Fast forward.

Confessions, tears, strangers,

heartbeats – the heart hoards its beats.

Elegance, surprises, adults,

let’s go wild – in to the wild,

et cetera,

et

cetera

Play.

The moon didn’t hide that night;

the sun won’t ever hide my love,

the truth – once again –

beat the lies.

Stop.

S

I keep this “secretly/desirably” simple (make everything in past tense):

I break into the fragile snowflakes as I pass the same dodgy

mate in all his glory. I admire his reddish socks, adoring

the feather on his beige chapeau. Who bloody cares about

tonight’s full eclipse? I still worship the virgin moon

as I wander under it with scattered thoughts. I stumble

along, growling and shaking. I’m lost. I’m found. I

repeat, “but I don’t feel down.” My companion tonight

is the taxi driver from Ghana. His random smile,

his ring tone, melt my hijacked heart; rescue

me from the nonsense terms that translate

into what we both learnt as lies.

Impatient, fearless, intoxicated;

I play tonight’s song, and smile

big at our (long) overdue

yet predictable

rendez-vous.

To be continued…

S

I just regained my sight

and saw myself floating

in between the silvery sky,

the knitted daffodils, and

the natural delights.

Eyes closed; eyes wide shut.

In the stranger’s land;

sunken in the night;

drunken in the drips;

I sweat and then smiled.

Beneath those closed eyes,

were the hot summer days,

the screaming on an old tape,

the lost Roman chain, and

an unknown tomorrow.

To be continued…

S