observatory (3)

Everything was muffled into silence. Even the tiny contraption that had always signified life on the other end was still. The only vibrations detected by my eardrum were the memory of the quivering acoustics of your breathing the night we last slept beside each other and the reality of the curtain blown wildly by the indifferent wind. The ashtray where I had laid my last stick of the moontime exhaled fumes, and flashes of your mirage filled my eyes and became a white shadow of Phrixos swimming in a sea of illusion of our bodies in smoke and constellations connecting the lines of a ram and a seagoat. The two beasts played in the mist as if fervently waiting for the precession of the equinoxes. But then, they clashed. The ram’s head crashed into the seagoat’s chest. Pieces of paper were on fire. Suddenly they were all gone—the cigarette, the fire, the ram and the seagoat. I tried looking for Phrixos; I tried looking for another image out of the smoke. But everything seemed gone. I stared blankly at the floor. Suddenly, I couldn’t even see the floor. I couldn’t see the blankness except for tiny black stars beginning to suspend in the air, in the seemingly perpetual cold coldness of the night. And with every zephyr that pierced my skin on those sleepless hours, I couldn’t take my mind off you.

What title, you say

What are you doing? You don’t own me. You don’t own yourself. Don’t talk to me about pride, ego, self-respect, self-love, or whatever the fuck. You say you lost your self-esteem. You see, it’s probably because you damn love yourself too much. Don’t tell me about order versus chaos. Words are mere fucking words, infinite, desultory, illusory, spoken incantations, written dramatizations, gestured ostentation.  I am chaos, you say. I am the perfect manifestation of distraction, clad in a symmetrical human anatomy that is not even close to Vitruvian perfection. I am disorder, you say. And you? Am I mad? I am, you say. And why, I asked. You’re mad for not growing up, you say. I did grow up, I say, I just refused to grow old. And why, you say, that’s so immature. And why not, I say. I don’t want to be like you, to grow with the world to pretentions, hypertensions, on the illusion that the world will be better. I tell you, the world is fucked up, it will never be better, the world will be even worse, it’s a whoredom of cunts, balls, playground of nuts, pretending to be civilized people that’s why they dress in uniforms, or in wools, with ties, with shining shoes. Oh, the world is fucked up and you are blind, I say. You are really mad, you say, thinking like a child, thinking like a stupid idealist; it’s either you’ll die early or you’ll just get really mad. I say, yeah, I died many times, many years ago, even minutes ago; I die with every beating because I loathe everything, because everything is so fucked up; I die because I have pain and couldn’t just die and that’s worse, that you can’t just die so you couldn’t feel anything, think about anything; I tell you, it’s worse not to die; and I sleep for a while after a bottle of booze, I try to sleep but I am afraid, I’m afraid that I would dream, a sweet sweet dream of a sweet sweet world with a sweet sweet girl, and then I would wake up, wake up in a fucked up world of reality; but what’s real? What is real, you say, what is fucking real; this is real, my words, this world, and you’ve got to wake up. I am awake, damn, I say, stop giving me all this shit. Who the hell do you think you are, you say. I don’t fucking care, I say… I am chaos because of you, because of your order, of your fake civilization, of your repressions, of your suppressions, of your damn belief in doctrines, law, and constitution. I didn’t choose to be like this. My mind chose who I should be and I chose to follow what’s on my mind. Who are you for me to listen to? Who do you think you are? Do you think you own me? I don’t fucking care if you can give me money for food; it’s best to starve; I don’t care if you know how to take me home, the world is my home. Those pricks, they claim lands and build nations and I can’t go anywhere I want to go in the world and they say we are free. Fuck your civilization in your geopolitical ass. Goddamn, you are really insane, you say. Insane, you say, I say, you think so? So how about this? How about shutting your mouth, shove it into your butthole, and leave me alone? I don’t want to fuck with you anymore; don’t talk to me about sanity, about philosophy, about idealism, solipsism, Buddhism, Christianism, communism, socialism, capitalism, modernism, realism, fuck the –isms, weren’t they invented by stupid idealists? Where are the beats, did they die, the lot of them? I don’t feel I belong anymore; you claimed the world; you people pretending to be people, you civilized liars, you believers of salvation, of afterlife, of a better world, of peace; well, let me tell you the good news, there is no peace, the word’s even confusing, difficult to define, hard to use, let alone to attain; let me tell you, peace is not the absence of chaos, peace is the absence of a civilized world thinking that peace is attainable in a fucked up world. How can I reason with you if you don’t listen to me, you say, you talk too much. What do you want me to say, I say, or not to say; should I shut the fuck up? do you think I am bitter, do you think you are better than me now, that I am wrong and you are right, that I am mad and you are sane; let me ask you, what is your goal, what is your purpose? What to have a family, to be happy in your old age, to be contended, to fuck as many cunts as you can, to die with a smile in your ugly, wrinkled face? Isn’t that conceited, isn’t that selfish? You don’t have the right to say that about me, you say, why, what about you, what do you want to do in life, to remain fucked up like this? I, I say, why not, my ultimate goal in life is to die; I am not a hero, I don’t have the right chromosomes to be a hero, I don’t even have the balls to face living in this society, this so cold so-called society; am I insulting you now? No, you say, I will just forget everything about you said and be calm, like a normal person would. Oh, ho ho ho, a “normal” person, I say, that’s it, that’s why I cannot exist, please do me a favor, please kill me now, or I’d be just insane like you. You are really fucking mad, you say. Hey don’t forget, I say, I am you.

A Poet’s Love Letter to His Muse

Words,

How have you been? Where did you hide yourself when you were so ashamed that I felt ashamed to have turned my back on you? I wanted to break you for not giving me enough and for giving me too much in the wrong chances, false places, forgotten time. You see, the better half of words has gone missing for a long time now. And I found myself looking at people as if they own you, Words, and I can’t take you with me, back to my solitude of smoke and liquor.

You probably got tired of me, of my loneliness, of my rage, of my rigmaroles, of the multiplicity of my confusion and complexity, of how I contradict myself with polarity. I might have drowned you with adjectives. I might have choked you with my pretentious, ostentatious, pedantic notes. You see, I did not change. I still long for you even though you smother me to my veins, breaking me like how I break you into silence.

I know I can do anything to you. The poets do not own you. Nobody owns you. Do you own me? But how could you? You are just words.

And I have lost you.

How can I find the right words to say this is not good-bye?

élan

constellations float in the dark,
underlining your face,
italicizing your eyelashes
with their lights beaming
through the leaves,
bowing down
to the gravity
that pulls my lips to trace
the rubious threshold
that exhales the whisperings
of your aching anima—
transcending science,
from physical to the metaphysical,
to the cosmic pursuits
of our paphian gestures
and gung-ho kisses,
breaking the fourth wall
of our phantasmagoric overtures.



xtopherdelax 2011