White Lines

white lines
make us nervous
white lines
unnerve us,
where do we draw the line?
we are only 25

the logic of our design
floats freely between two minds,
not within these lines
that are either black or white

darling;

would you rather be a sketch?
an undefined etch
blood without its stream
flows but what does it mean?

but let's not complicate;

a heart does not lie
and we are here until we die
that is neither wrong nor right
this is neither black nor white

if we only
learn to comprehend,
without words we cannot misunderstand
(with our eyes we can exchange)

white lines draw the end
silence is our only friend

Anaïs Nin

“I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic-in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.”

—

Anaïs Nin

Perfect Death

somewhere between her foul mouth and genitalia

a life dying to take her first breath

raging impurity of oceania gives birth to a perfect death

imbued with wisdoms of the waves

waiting for a wilting love

the irony is what she craves

kills her more than life above

the dirt ground choking under her feet

diminishing sky in her lover's eyes

chasing life is as futile as the quest for truth

and the arrival of death holds no surprise

event horizon

infinitely dense content overload resulting in a near-brain implosion
thank you internets.

firefly

unexpected firefly flickering his light

tangos with the shadows and dances with the night

nocturnal creature swiftly roams looking for a mate

marks the dark as his home, such a lonely wait 

he saunters onwards on this journey

humming a single man's free will

an anomaly between the trees
in his heart so still

Love is a Parallax, by Sylvia Plath

Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
where wave pretends to drench real sky.

Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
the simple sum of heart plus heart.