Calendar

8^th December 2014

#2 Calendar

My calendar of woes, of misfortunes
and the gradual shift of sunlight,
blades of time and the final re-arrangements.

This relatively slow movement of time
when compared to snakes and similar
creatures without legs, makes me forget
the better things of life and living.

I am trying to explain why we
observe a difference in understanding
of a single situation as there are
multiple planes of dumbness
where the singular splits like an amoeba
breeding contempt and disbelief,
resulting in time dilation.

Therefore numbers move on slowly,
on calendars of shame, of lunacy.
There is slime and it smells of pickles.

Word

31^st August 2014

#1 Word

A word moves through pages
changing position every time
we chance upon it. It changes
meaning every time we put our
finger on it. Just like a single
chord which has no meaning
unless we know what was played
before and what we are waiting for.
The word slipped out of the book,
it chose a tongue, a pair of lips
and fell into the sadness of our lives.

The word moved through the streets,
gathering dust and kept on moving.
Those who chose a doorstep, waited
for an infinite, died a natural death,
a death followed by the mourning of the usual,
professors weeping for a dead sparrow,
the last of its kind. Slowing down is a crime,
so the word moves on through the roads,
honking taxis and the pedestrian madness.
Our word moves through cities,
heavy trucks that kill the silence of the night,
changing seats with the driver,
the half-closed eyes of a drunkard who
can’t see beyond his eye lashes,
a fortune teller of the unknown.
The word gained momentum, faster
than the tyres, spinning and rolling,
spilling over in portions of the madness.
The word slept in the tavern,
waiting for a cloth to wipe it from
its dream. A feminine fragrance to
change its idea, another dimension
to this growing randomness of
events and touches which push
it further away from its origin,
into the loneliness of the big blue world.
The word held on to its lover
as the plane flew over our country.
It had already lost its meaning
just like our lives, holding on to
empty seats and empty eyes failing to
question our purpose.
That’s how the word left,
flying away into the darkness of 
the unspoken and the unheard.
Many years later, we sit under
a tree, watching its leaves fall,
waiting for our word. Even if it comes
back, we can never be sure.

Pieces

25^th July 2014

#9 Pieces

a)   I’m not

b)   Nails have been chewed, some are broken

c)   Lonely anonymous hotel rooms

d)   Wet strands of hair

I wanted to get out of here,
it took a long time for the sun to rise
more than usual,
this body of surprise
always staring at the ceiling
to bring it down someday.
I couldn’t wait.

At the intersection

#7 At the intersection

I don’t like it easy
I’d rather wait for it to rain.
I’d rather break my watch
to forget my time.

Impressions a failing mind,
a faster heart,
imagining a shadow to fall
from a building so tall
that when it hits the ground,
I won’t be around.

But where will I be?
How long and how far?

I solve the cloud,
not the rain.
I will still be wet
in months of sunlight,
making faces at passing cars,
searching for a sound
that breaks my glass
and once again
I will extend my stay
at the intersection,
in a similar pattern of random memories.

Missing nothing

29^th April 2014

#6 Missing nothing

We were born without our names,
in our different worlds of dilemma.
We did not choose our surnames either,
we preferred to lie down and wait for the sun.
Then came the pride and obsolete sense
of belonging somewhere we never belonged to,
as if we own this language, these rituals of
translating our feelings into a pillow of moonlit
feathers and pretending to imitate life.
While life was ignoring everything we had,
taking us to a point where we don’t miss a thing,
anymore.

Repairing roads

6^th March 2014

#5 Repairing roads

Reset my forehead,
sequencing my inhibitions
of a daily life, smooth and consistent.
Preventing the mothballs
from turning into flying creatures
hiding behind sweaters,
winter is temporary
and so is my regret.
Repairing roads to nowhere
a busy street stares at the pendulum
waiting for gaps and breathing spaces,
the dogs need to sleep.