To W.
All right, if you insist-
A blind life you never ask in,
Hours sprayed in cobalt blue, then the soul,
A skinny teen in a denim mini skirt,
While rejections turn up all coated
In honey, needles, thank yous,
‘Young lady’ they say to her,
Ever so nice and kind, such fakes-
Now, any minute she’ll skid off
Her slightly mad compulsion
To smile unload and share
To the reclusive keeper
Of berries, daisies, bluebells on grass-
Okay, it’s so true we are just tales telling each other tales,
But she’d better settle among clouds, waves,
As she belongs to them, not to a maze
Of shadows, glitter, green words of love,
So very sneaky-
Oh, and speaking of glitter,
Why are the forests twinkling?
Who recharged the batteries dead
For insights much darker than caves,
Or eerie dangers as snowfalls?
Who did that, maybe the outcasts,
A drama in the briars, a wilderness of ice
Beyond glass and mirrors, or the mad symphony
In the streets, stones, strikers, cops,
Mace, whacks and blows galore, a riot
Of wandering hours, with just one alef more,
A breath while stars get on,
Countless like poems, or lies,
And a redemption born from the splits in the heart
Will never taste the sting of clouds ‘n’ waves-
Yet she looks so merry and pretty among the shadows,
If nice and gentle stays her name.
*******
To S.
Just take my word for it,
Anarchy all over here, the boys-
Actually vampires in disguise-
Just about to bite the teacher on a school trip-
Such a dearie he is, bit ditzy maybe,
A caring soul, and innocent eyes-
Well, never mind, but if blue and green shall not be seen
How come grass and sky stop for a chat?
Such tattlers, and that bloody green too,
Lies so loud in the wild choking green,
Bit much, isn’t it?
Look, the point is souls or forests are both dreams
Of a mind where the old maid dwells,
So sure flowers are godless hedonists
Or rakish heathens, if in the butterflies’ dance
Your breath, but in their wrath maybe demise-
So, shall we lower life and breaths now?
Sorry, not yet, belonging is a warm blanket
For the soul, bit dirty, to be fair, if thoughts forget
Or lose their light into a maze green strives to hide-
No, lights up and stop it now, let her feel free,
No more entry to the green, that shade
Of broken shards of light, or a falling dark
Hidden into the winter’s mind, where God let
Green to fail us, burn our sight, shut out
Walls and stares, the fake mercy of the night,
Our dear sweetie dying to set green stars free-
You know, henchmen who do the dirty work
Always come in handy.
*******
To Y.
Got scared? Sunday bloody Sunday,
Charon standing in front of the bar,
In jeans and a jacket, of course,
While the barmaid proudly sports eight piercings
On her lower lips, and deadly steel earrings-
O God, o soul, she can see winter on your face,
God is punished for leaving creation free;
Evil a reward for your noblest intentions,
For letting creation run wild,
Every breath the escape from a desert
As life stops in anger, deep down her soul those caves
Where hopes, thoughts, desire squirm, so guilty,
Restless, so badly deceived,
All because limbs have a memory rooted like a redwood,
Or wire grass just striving to survive, her nasty tokens
Lurking in the undergrowth ready to fire point-blank,
The bloody marksmen if in a raw blue light,
The dawn of a desire accident-prone like blades of grass, They set ablaze a paradise thrown to your hands,
And to old stars, so out of sync-
Long story short, don’t think anyone cares
About the light shining in their eyes, those acres
Of a compliant silence, those wastelands
Of a chatty regret, messy clandestine geographies
When you talk nonstop on light, love,
Choices, abnegation, but all it takes is some young hooligans Slumping around to make those lovely words
Fall from your heart-
And only poetry drops in quickly, but hurries off
Before you can serve her a drink,
Ever the most gracious hostess bit lost
Among knockouts in skimpy bikinis
Who keep babbling that life must change, it will, it must,
All the while nicking love and words from the lightest hours.
