Lunar Grapefruits

Being, and being some more

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Fri, 01 May 2009 04:04:00 +0000

For the longest time, there laid nothing of the kind
under the onion-like skin,
way below the streams of crimson agony
proclaiming silence, while embracing warm bodies, tight
throes at eludes, I kept on embracing
for without them, it was just another cold body
shivering, at the rasping of nails, clawing into the silver lining
Pleasure perhaps had its own planet
entitled to its abyss.

Fruits of Paradox, utterly sweet
with an after taste of false awakenings
at its vegetated state of delusions.
This is where it all begins and ends
through an incomplete metamorphosis
or an ignored nothingness of an empty Cocoon.
Who is afraid
of this creature that crawls out of a broken cycle?
Gradually,
One can catches it loosing all sensations,
for everyone to see
this public display of disaffection.

Why is it that everything is always taken so literally?
Asked someone, impatiently.
And then,
I overheard Sartre and Foucault,
shouting joyfully:
- "Hell is other people"

perhaps when
- "The Soul becomes the prison of the body"!

III.

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 06:50:00 +0000

A man has one body,
so solitary.
The soul is sick
of this solid sheath
with ears and eyes
the size of buttons
and skin, a mass of scars,
a skeleton's robe.
Fly through the cornea
to the heavenly spring
to the icy spoke,
to the bird's chariot.
Through its prison bars it hears
the clamor of woods and leas,
the trumpet of the seas.
A soul without a body
is like a body without a shirt.
Not a thought for a deed,
not a line or a concept.
A riddle that has no answer:
Who'll return to dance
where there's no one to dance?
I dream of another soul,
dressed in other garb.
I flits from doubt to hope,
burning without a shadow
like alcohol,
and slips away
leaving a memento:
Some lilac on the table
child, fret not
over poor Eurydice
but drive your copper hoop
through life
while in response to every step
you hear the Earth reply.
Merry is its voice, and dry.

II.

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 06:15:00 +0000

I trust not premonitions
and I fear not omens.
I flee not from slander or poison.
There is no death.
We're all immortal.
All is immortal.
Fear not death at seventeen
nor at seventy.
There's only reality and light.
There's neither dark nor death
in this, our world.
We've reached the beach
and I am one of those who pull the nets in
when immortality arrives in batches.
Live in a house and it won't crumble.
I'll summon a century at will
enter and build my house in it.
That's why your children and your wives
all share my board
the table serving forefather and grandson.
The future is decided now.
And if I raise my hand
the five rays will remain to you.
My bones, like beams
held up each day.
I measured time with a surveyor's staff,
and passed through it as though the mountains.
I chose a century
according to my height.
We pressed on south,
raising dust in the steppes.
Weeds smoldered, a grasshopper played
touching horseshoes and prophesying
threatening me with death
quite like a monk.
I strapped my fate fast to my saddle
I rise up in the stirrups of the future as a boy.
I am content
with my immortality
with my blood coursing
from century to century.
I'd gladly give my life
for a safe corner of warmth
if life's swift needle
did not draw me on
as though I were a thread.

Three verses

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 05:19:00 +0000

The following are 3 verses recited in Andrei Tarkovsky's film "The mirror". These poems are by his father Arseny Tarkovsky, Russia's prominent poet and translator.

I.
We celebrate each moment
of our meetings a revelation
alone in all the world.
You were lighter and bolder
than the wing of a bird
flying down the stairs two at a time
pure giddiness,
leading me through moist lilac
to your domain beyond the looking glass.
When night fell
I was favored.
The alter gates were opened
and in the dark there gleamed
your nudity, and I slowly bowed.
Awakening, "Be blessed", I said
and knew my blessing to be bold
for you still slept.
The lilac on the table stretched forth
to touch your lids with heavenly blue
and your blue-tinted lids
were calm, and your hand was warm.
Locked in crystal, rivers pulsed
mountains smoked,
seas glimmered.
You held a sphere of crystal
in your hand and slept on a throne.
And-- righteous Lord!--
you were mine.
You awakened and transformed.
our mundane, human words.
Then did my throat fill with new power
and give new meaning to "you"
which now meant "sovereign"
All was transformed
even such simple things
as basin, pitcher
when, like a sentinel,
layered, solid water
lay between us.
We were drawn on and on
were cities build by magic
parted before us like mirages.
Mint carpeted our way
birds escorted us
and fish swam upstream
while the sky spread out before us
as Fate followed in our wake
like a madman brandishing a razor.

The problem with Memory

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 00:04:00 +0000

Never wore a locket with a face smiling wide,
caged inside
scrap books and diaries were just too easy
reach out and open it, senseless and dead
I wouldn't dare to smell the decomposing past,
on the pages after pages of tacky colorful papers.
pictures were taken once in a while,
just to see how things couldn't get anymore perfect
how there might never be a repeat,
no chance of duplication
and the next time I would look at it,
it could be in an imperfect moment
just far enough to be called past.
and how strange it was,
when I come to realize
that the less I asked for remembrance
and the less I collected, it was all the more.
I was remembering so out of control
randomly but constantly
sometimes bringing back sweet tastes,
smells were the best, in the middle of that kitchen
the dry air and mustard yellow tiles,
of the childhood house.
Then in the same random manner
it turned into those hurtful ones.
How I didn't asked for it all,
whatever was done, what was not done
it had to become a melancholy of a passive mind
a vintage piece,
unwanted,
insisting on its cruel existence.

Necessities Only!

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Tue, 13 May 2008 00:26:00 +0000

Desired to see,
when dared to look, it just wasn't there.
Reaching out, fingers freezed
swallowing it down, that warmth of the numbing liquid.
didn't care to hear
sobbings of self-declared tragics, unaware destructive
and of course, kind words of insecures, raising trust.
spinning, swallowing some more,
and there it is, in the overlighted bathroom mirror, staring back
is a face of an unfinished decision
a discontinued politician
that modestly suppressed once:
"Necessities only!"
so, unnecessities were placed carefully
inside that still-unpacked suitcase
next to the favorite jeans and clean underwears...
never to be mentioned again unless they were cleverly humiliated and denied.
"How dare they belong?"
Necessities Only!

Wonderment!

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Thu, 08 May 2008 16:47:00 +0000

Just another epic cycle!

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 02:29:00 +0000

It went blurry again...
while I was staring at it indifferently
After all it wasn't like some kind of bright light at the end of some dark tunnel to begin with...
it had always been there, as long as I can remember
sometimes scattered, the way tiny bits of dust are, floating in the air, when broken by sunlight...
but then it always looked sickeningly the same.
So I shifted many times, meaning to become solid, to hold on
and every time, there came an absolute stillness afterwards
looking ahead, it stopped with me, possibly waiting for me to catch up
possibly just desiring to fade away right there.
consequences of stillness, are just not so simple.
the useless being of anything that's ahead
sometimes blurry, sometimes not
it slowly made my eyelids heavy... it went dark under closed eyes, so much brighter!
Soon I had to open them, soon I had to start moving,
but I would be tired again,
and soon I wouldn't be able to justify my exhausted self.
whatever is ahead of me,
Is laughing at loud.

Undivided

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 16:38:00 +0000

The way you remember it, never actually happened.
the traces left behind, the emptiness you feel just looking back at it,
is not really there.
Shadow of a person you thought you saw once
so fragile and black, maybe carefully getting closer,
maybe touching the surface with cold fingers
maybe poking too far
for there was a sensation you never knew existed
maybe an old cliche!
for good or bad, it disappeared, gone... fucked.
so you touched your skin all over, searching urgently for the left marks of his fingers
the shadow's.
dried skin untouched
logic deceived
It never happened.
The shadow might have been a real shadow
a tree perhaps,
just standing there in the far distance
You've been denied by only a shadow of something unknown.
In a half lit world, weary and sore
frightened to see
the truth from fiction.

So it begins...

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 03:21:00 +0000

There,
between the slowly fading presences,
goes around, the very crippled sequence of events,
from which, one dies in the process of a fictional birth,
thrown out of existence...

what comes next is only an erroneous perception of a sweet, disturbed childhood
the scripted moments of revelations, illuminations, darkness...
from the delusion of traumas, staged breakdowns.
What comes out, are perfectly shaped bodies
prefacing, without recognizing the astonishment that
leaves behind.
and of course it is only thought to be heard
mumbled words, unconscious head
the birth effect carried out through
then forcefully learned behaviors started to kick in,
the pretentious curving ups on the corners of the lips,
for which talks were regarded by.

so they faded out, in complete consciousness
this time naked and blank, fairly real
this time out of wound.

Prologue

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Sun, 16 Dec 2007 04:19:00 +0000

You've been so good to me, Queen of tragedies.
when there was only one closet to be hide in,
dizzy with the smell of soiled laundry.
and only one door that could be locked, in my entire universe,
hearing my own humming, echoing in the white space, between bathtub and the ceramic floor,
"So I can live on water alone for couple of days in here", I would think to myself childishly.
while you my Queen, were defending your forever lost youth, digging up dirt.
I could picture your every facial expression, moving around the room dramatically,
fragile and tired afterward, regaining your powers in the corner.
you owned the stage.
It never took a whole day for me to come out,
"Wait 30 minutes after hearing nothing but silence", I made that rule.
Wondering what to expect.
Once, you left me a burned doll, her clothes spotted with your cigarette,
that day my room was the chosen place.
I came out to watch you, I was drawn into it.
There I learned about self-pities, and rotten lucks.
Under layers of Dostoevsky's and Balzac's, there it was, a deformed superstition.
Full with fascination for my Queen, I refused to let her walk out,
for the price of thousand words and unworthy tears.

It wouldn't be long until the next Act.

From Dummies Collection

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Sun, 09 Dec 2007 18:09:00 +0000

Life Delicioso

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 04:09:00 +0000

The end might be around the corner, but never close enough to stop him from missing, remembering, loving, and imagining constantly. His nostalgia so strong and almost permanent, he misses everyone. He remembers everyone... With every name that he calls, dead or alive, there is a tale... Once there was a childhood, an adulthood, genuine one in fact... Humane enough to be missed. His mind hasn't completely stopped recording, but new events aren't important anymore. Sometimes when I sit besides him, he asks me if my kids are doing good... I don't have kids, I tell him... then he gives me an embarrassed smile, or cracks a joke if he is in a good mood..., his jokes are witty.
He hates family reunions, he hates having to say goodbye one by one, it leaves him empty and sick... First time I saw him cry was in one of those damn reunions. Not too long ago. No! He was sobbing... He still sends imaginary money to relatives, to places that existed once, before an earthquake, a revolution, a war, or just an industrialization project. So I like to see him alot... as much as I can... he reminds me of how late I am, everytime, and how he has been waiting.... The only time I hear him complain. His life so full and so empty at the same time... Not for anybody to say that is time for him to stop... for his current existence is all he desires...then there will be nothing... Death is death... with nothing beyond it... Not necessarily scared, just not done yet.

Hipocresía Expreso

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 06:36:00 +0000

Disgust took over rage,
silence took over a lumpy throat,
paranoia took over the conscience,
Melancholy took over the World.

Consumed by absurdities,
loved by pities,
injected with obligations,
frightened by nostalgia.

Forced to cease,
drugged to persist,
promised to be deluded so impeccably.
While time exhausted the body,
and routines dulled the head.

Under layers of filth,
still remaines
an untouched state.

Death of a Fishvane

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 16:30:00 +0000

If it wasn't an absolute stillness...!?

Deluded by the wind, the Fishvane was convinced of flying

While the very existence of the stick denied it.
Gravity pulling, while the passing by breeze promised the moment of departure.

Mesmerized by the wind's sweet words,

Fishvane couldn't hear the earth whispering,

_"You are only a fool dreamer, selling your soul to the seductive sky, in return of a moment away from me! Me! The generous Earth"!

Furious by the Fishvane's betrayal,

The earth pulled on the stick violently,

and swallowed in the Fishvane.

The wind stopped blowing for a moment... sorrow heavier than the air.

Autotomy

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Sat, 20 Oct 2007 18:02:00 +0000

In danger, the holothurian cuts itself in two.

It abandons one self to a hungry world

and with the other self it flees.

It violently divides into doom and salvation,

retribution and reward, what has been and what will be.

An abyss appears in the middle of its body

between what instantly become two foreign shores.

Life on one shore, death on the other.

Here hope and there despair.

If there are scales, the pans don't move.

If there is justice, this is it.

To die just as required, without excess.

To grow back just what's needed from what's left.

We, too, can divide ourselves, it's true.

But only into flesh and a broken whisper.

Into flesh and poetry.

The throat on one side, laughter on the other,

quiet, quickly dying out.

Here the heavy heart, there non omnis moriar

just three little words, like a flight's three feathers.

The abyss doesn't divide us.

The abyss surrounds us.

The dried veins of Morality

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 02:41:00 +0000

Sometimes an object has to be broken into tiny pieces, in order for its deformity to be taken away...Its uselessness and impracticality to be stopped immediately. Obsessively re-attached pieces are made to become one unit and serve a common purpose, as determined by the creator. Its physical being no longer could be ignored.

------------------------------------------

So I ask her, why are you here?...It could be a question just echoing in my mind... And no! there was never any sound because my lips never moved to free the words into the silenced air... As she suffers in her own special ways and as lines appears on her face for every suffering day by day, I wonder if it wasn't one wrong notion that dragged her into this! Sobbing in every corner of the room, she begs me to feel, to snap out of the numbness... So I try, and I fail everytime, for it's been too long and too cold... And survival has its own price! My own version of living. She is determined to believe that the alien she is seeing everyday, is a deprived soul...The creature must be connected to the feeding tubes of morality in order to recover. As human as I ever felt, I pull the plugs stubbornly.
Finally, her sobbing turn into an innocent, soundless sleep.

Avoided awareness!

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Tue, 16 Oct 2007 20:14:00 +0000

Unexpected incidents never to be expected,
When so busy waiting for things to happen, intensely...
As nothing works the way one wishes for,
it disappoints and frustrates, but it also fades....
Then, forgotten as an old mid-summer day dream,
it existence hardly even counts...
an insect coming out of dark,
expected to be respectfully welcomed...
and wishfully taken back...
unaware, being under curse of complete unawareness,
Unaware as Oedipus.
Not deserving pity, not deserving the second chance,
Swallowed by time, to be digesting regrets.

Fallen

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Thu, 04 Oct 2007 02:25:00 +0000

Misha Gordin's new Collection:

http://www.bsimple.com/Fallen1.htm

Parasita

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Mon, 01 Oct 2007 23:54:00 +0000

Sound of expired seconds,
Taste of Blah-Blah-Blahs,
Smell of sour moods,

Rusty,
dry,
nauseating...

It deafens
It numbs
It sickens

A sucker called Boredom.

Only under special circumstances!

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Sat, 29 Sep 2007 02:12:00 +0000

Surrounded by delirium,
light headed and numb,
time slowing down, stretched out seconds...
craving Melody,
to be echoed in every hollow bone, every blank space of the head.

A pleasant vertigo, so convinced to fly...
Only, and only if I could jump so high and never come back down again...
High for eternity, serenity nearby.

As I open my eyes, I fall back down again,
What is left is nausea, disbelief and sadness,
Labelled realities staring me straight in the eyes...

Was I high or just Naive?

The Persistence of Memory

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Thu, 20 Sep 2007 01:33:00 +0000

Not so far away... Just around the corner, someone had a flashback.
Tiny pieces of memory, being pushed to the first row, where they can be touched, not ignored...
In the 5th floor,
where there is a strong smell of melancholy, somebody tried to forget,
while in the first floor, there was a slight hint of nostalgia in the tasteless air molecules, for anything that ever existed.
Impossible to block, they are the muted screams...
Dusty and old... demanding rebirth... With or without a soul.
Frustrated past... trapped into the time's cemetery...begging to be dug out, buried again, decomposed.
Too far... Too old to be brought back again.

Shhh...

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Tue, 11 Sep 2007 00:10:00 +0000

Slowly,
with a great uncertainty,
words pouring out of her head into the muted space of the throat,
Disconnected violently...Unable to scream out the wasted words.

How sound becomes the misunderstood logic, sewer of head.
Standing there... breathing heavily, making an effort to make sense out of nonsense.
Just few more seconds, and it wouldn't matter anymore...
Urgency is just a disfigured moment after all.

So she turned her back and took a deep breath, as if air could wash everything down from her
blocked throat.

An alien called "Human"

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Sun, 09 Sep 2007 04:07:00 +0000

Smell of humidity,
Taste of metal...
dreams that live and die one after another...
People who are close, only when they are at the highest point of their miseries...
Something worthy to hear... Fear of loosing it...
is gone....
Blank papers that takes no time to turn into the proves of the human insanity.

Just a thought!

noreply@blogger.com (Ghazal) — Sun, 09 Sep 2007 03:53:00 +0000

Apples are gone,
the last words of the insane man...
let me run, let me spin.
The voice is wrong, Signs aren't made of Neon lights after all...
Click, click, click, and there is my lost times in some lousy frame...
By the way that plastic bag that you're wrapping around your head has a hole in it...
Light cream is not light anymore, victims of congelation.