Boredom has penetrated my bones making them the bars of a birdcage.
Voiceless, I cannot sing my sparrow song. My heaviness prevents
flight. When I sleep, it is all day. When I am awake, I feel like I
have left something behind, though I know not what. I hear you
rapping, but I don’t know how to let you in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boredom has penetrated my bones making them the bars of a birdcage. Confusion has set in somewhere deep in my soul, somewhere where hands, cocks, shoulder blades, your feelings, inquisitive questions of others can't reach. Voiceless, I cannot sing my sparrow song. My heaviness prevents flight. But the flight is all I have. All I want. All I need. I think. When I sleep I think. it is all day. When I am awake, I feel like I have left something behind, though I know not what. Is this what emptiness looks like? I hear you rapping, but I don’t know how to let you in. Will you stick around even if the door is closed and others leave?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are many turn-offs. One is boredom. Has it penetrated, my dear, the bones? Making them the bars of a birdcage?
Confusion another.
Has it set in somewhere deep? In my soul, somewhere where hands, cocks, shoulder blades, your feelings, inquisitive questions of others can't reach, I find solace. In loneliness, the voiceless tremble of desire, I cannot sing my sparrow song without the sweetness of tears.

My heaviness, my inability to dream, prevents flight into the openness.
But flight is all I have. All I want. All I need.
I think of great solutions.
When I sleep, I think of escape routes. It is all day.
When I am awake, I plan. I prepare.

I feel like I have left something behind, though I know not what, I run naked.
Is this what emptiness looks like? A watched woman removing high heels?
A perfect completion of form?
Sorry, I stopped making sense.

I wake, hear you rapping. But I don't know how to let you in.
Will you stick around even if the door is closed and others leave?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are many turn-offs with turn-ons in between. One is boredom. It has me pinned down to this… it has penetrated you too my dear. Are the bones making them the bars of a birdcage?
Confusion is another.
Has it set in somewhere deep? In my soul, somewhere where hands, cocks, shoulder blades, your feelings, inquisitive questions of others can't reach? I find solace in elevators passing the flats occupied with wifes and children and old men on balconies and empty ones with memory chests and dirty pots in the sink.
In loneliness, the voiceless tremble of desire. I cannot sing my sparrow song without the sweetness of tears. And if I do, remember: I am pretending.

My heaviness, my inability to dream, prevents flight into the openness.
But flight is all I have. All I want. All I need.
I think of great solutions.
When I sleep, I think of escape routes. It is all day.
When I am awake, I plan. I prepare.
I focus on what I must do.

I feel like I have left something behind, though I know not what, I run naked. Unable to locate it.
Is this what emptiness looks like? A watched woman removing high heels. A perfect completion of form
Sorry, I stopped making sense.

I wake, hear you rapping. But I don't know how to let you in.
Will you stick around even if the door is closed and others leave?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are many turn-offs with turn-ons in between. One is boredom. It has me pinned down to this… it has penetrated you too my dear. Are the bones making them the bars of a birdcage? Scream.

Confusion is another.
Has it set in somewhere deep? In my soul, somewhere where hands, cocks, shoulder blades, your feelings, inquisitive questions of others can't reach, I find solace in elevators passing the flats occupied with wives and children and old men on balconies and empty ones with memory chests and dirty pots in the sink.
In loneliness, the voiceless tremble of desire, I cannot sing my sparrow song without the sweetness of tears. And if I do, remember: I am pretending.

My heaviness, my inability to dream, prevents flight into the openness.
But flight is all I have. All I want. All I need.
I think of great solutions.
When I sleep, I think of escape routes. It is all day.
When I am awake, I plan. I prepare.
I focus on what I must do.
I look at the shortness of life. Imaginative passing of time. The unimportance of what I have created. And I say: “Fuck IT. My life to live.”

I feel like I have left something behind, though I know not what, I run naked. Unable to locate it. Locate my body. Where are my hands? I don’t stop.
Is this what emptiness looks like? A watched woman removing her high heels. One shoe. Plop. Then the next.  Perfect completion of form.
Sorry, I stopped making sense. I don’t care. Freedom fills me, lifts me.

I wake, hear you rapping. But I don't know how to let you in.
Will you stick around even if the door is closed and others leave? Will you go with me?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In bones, confusion is set. I find empty desire. I cannot sing my song. If I do, remember: I am pretending. Openness is all I have, want, need. I look at unimportance of what I have created. I say: “Fuck my life to live”. I run naked, unable to locate  my body.  Door is closed. Others leave. Go with me?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In my bones my girlhood remains dreaming woman. Though confusion is set on the dinner table between knife and spoon. Between politics and weather. I find my plate full of empty desire. I cannot, I will not take another swallow.

“Sing my song, my dream of woman,” my childhood whispers.
“If I do, remember: I am pretending.” But it’s all make-pretend. Openness is all I have, want, need. I look at unimportance of what I have created as a pile of mashed potatoes. I say: “Fuck my life to live.”
I run naked, unable to locate my body. 

Door is closed to boring chatter. Others leave me to my dreaming. Go with me if you dare. Can dare. Are daring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In my bones my girlhood remains. The bridge over Mtkvari. Skinny legs, frizzy hair,  hands fumbling. lost. On the tree lined street, you said 'hold on'.  Endlless escalator taking us somewhere. "Careful, doors are closing". The scent of my skin remains. I smell like this city.  dreaming, counting the stops, woman suspiciously looking. Though confusion is set on the dinner table between knife and spoon. Between politics and weather. "It might rain today... It was so hot yesterday".I find my plate full of empty desire. I cannot, I will not take another swallow. I will just sit and stare. 

“Sing my song, my dream of woman,” my childhood whispers.
“If I do, remember: I am pretending.” But it’s all make-pretend. Openness is all I have, want, need. I look at unimportance of what I have created as a pile of mashed potatoes. I say: “Fuck my life to live.”
I run naked, unable to locate my body. 

Door is closed to boring chatter. Others leave me to my dreaming. Go with me if you dare. Can dare. Are daring. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In my bones my girlhood remains. The bridge over Mtkvari. Skinny legs, frizzy hair, hands fumbling. lost. still lost. On the tree-lined street, you said 'hold on'. an endless escalator. taking us. from somewhere, "careful, doors are closing." the scent of my skin. the boy on the bus remains. I smell like the bazar. this city is dreaming, counting the stops. woman suspiciously looking, man crooked-tooth smile. Though at home confusion is set on the dinner table between knife and spoon, Between politics and weather, "It might rain today... It was so hot yesterday, anyone going on vacation?” I find my plate full of empty desire. I cannot, I will not take another swallow. I will just sit and stare at mouths moving. no sound.

“Sing my song, my dream of woman,” my childhood whispers.
“If I do, remember: I am pretending.” But it’s all make-pretend. these clothes, this name. Openness into mystery is all I have left, want, need. I look at unimportance of what I have created as a pile of mashed potatoes. enough. I say: “Fuck my life to live.”

I run. naked my limbs. unable to breath I locate my body. I have for so long forgotten this pain.
Door is closed to boring chatter. Others leave me to my dreaming. for what comes first but a dream. Go with me if you dare the muttering retreats. Can dare saw dust restaurants with oyster shells. Are daring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In my bones my girlhood remains. Stuck in my rib cage, sparrow will always sing. 24 bones breath in and out. Still. Distant. Deep. I can do this. The bridge over Mtkvari. Skinny legs, frizzy hair, hands fumbling. lost. still lost. On the tree-lined street, or maybe on the bridge you said 'hold on'. Did I? an endless escalator. taking us. from somewhere. From anywhere to anything. From here to fucking anywhere. "careful, doors are closing." the scent of my skin. the boy on the bus remains. I smell like the bazar. this city is dreaming, counting the stops. woman suspiciously looking, man crooked-tooth smile. What if I had remained, what then? Though at home confusion is set on the dinner table between knife and spoon, Between politics and weather, "It might rain today... It was so hot yesterday, anyone going on vacation?” I find my plate full of empty desire. I cannot, I will not take another swallow. I choke knowing what I know before I knew it. I will just sit and stare at mouths moving. no sound.

“Sing my song, my dream of woman,” my childhood whispers.
“If I do, remember: I am pretending.” But it’s all make-pretend. these clothes, this name. Openness into mystery is all I have left, want, need. I look at unimportance of what I have created as a pile of mashed potatoes. enough. I say: “Fuck my life to live.”

I run. naked my limbs. unable to breath I locate my body. I have for so long forgotten this pain.
Door is closed to boring chatter. Others leave me to my dreaming. for what comes first but a dream. Go with me if you dare the muttering retreats. Can dare saw dust restaurants with oyster shells. Are my beginning and end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ribcage, skinny legs, hands fumbling, scent of my skin, the boy remains. full of desire I take another swallow. i choke. mouths moving. no sound. I am pretending these clothes, this name is all I have left. fuck my life to live. unable to breath I have for so long forgotten my beginning and end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

my ribcage is like your ribcage. almost. in theory.
skinny are legs when hands are fumbling and unintelligable words are wispered in a hurry between my ear and my eye.
scent of something I cannot have.
overhelming perfume of my skin sweating.
what a difference.
what a disaster.
 the boys exchange their remains. full of overgrown desire I take another swallow of kampot. i choke on a cranberry. mouths stop moving. no sound, therefore you are exempt. I am pretending these clothes, this name is all I have left now. I don’t fuck. Because it is not my life to live. Yet I am unable to breath. I have for so long forgotten the structures of my beginning and end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“my ribcage is like your ribcage.”
“almost. in theory.” you say, touching my sternum.
skinny are legs when hands are fumbling and unintelligable words are whispered in a hurry between my ear and my eye. the scent of something I cannot have is overwhelming.
perfume of my skin sweating. your skin sweating.

what a difference.
what a disaster.
you get up to observe.

from the balcony you watch the boys exchange their glances. in bed remains me. full of overgrown desire I take another swallow of kampot. i choke on a cranberry. mouths stop moving. no sound heard. ‘therefore  you are exempt,’ I think. I am pretending I can be here, in these clothes, in this name.

what is this all that I have left?

now I don’t fuck, because I believe it is not my life to live. Yet
I am unable to breath deep. I have for so long forgotten the structures of my beginning and end. the middle is unwinding me. so I have come here. because here I can fall apart and you won’t ask questions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“my ribcage is like your ribcage.”  (with spots for fingers to escape)
“almost. in theory.” you say, touching my sternum.
skinny are legs when hands are fumbling and unintelligable words are whispered in a hurry between my ear and my eye. the scent of something I cannot have is overwhelming. (all in the name of something or exemption of thereof)
perfume of my skin sweating. your skin sweating. (we‘re all dying in this bloody heat and nobody cares)

what a difference.
what a disaster.
you get up to observe. (all too well knowing that acting will continue)

from the balcony you watch the boys exchange their glances. in bed remains me. full of overgrown desire I take another swallow of kampot. i choke on a cranberry. mouths stop moving. no sound heard. ‘therefore  you are exempt,’ I think. I am pretending I can be here, in these clothes, in this name.(I pretend to let my arms, legs, soul occupy those streest I wonder. I love)

what is this all that I have left?  (knots clog up the smoothness of )

now I don’t fuck, because I believe it is not my life to live. Yet (me still unsure of what)
I am unable to breath deep. I have for so long forgotten the structures of my beginning and end. the middle is unwinding me. so I have come here. because here I can fall apart and you won’t ask questions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“my ribcage is like your ribcage.”  (with spots for fingers to escape)
“almost. in theory.” you say, touching my sternum.
skinny are legs when hands are fumbling and unintelligable words are whispered in a hurry between my ear and my eye. the scent of something I cannot have is overwhelming. (all in the name of something or exemption of thereof)
perfume of my skin sweating. your skin sweating. (we‘re all dying in this bloody heat and nobody cares)

what a difference.
what a disaster.
you get up to observe. (all too well knowing that acting will continue)

from the balcony you watch the boys exchange their glances. in bed remains me. full of overgrown desire I take another swallow of kampot. i choke on a cranberry. mouths stop moving. no sound heard. ‘therefore  you are exempt,’ I think. I am pretending I can be here, in these clothes, in this name. (I pretend to let my arms, legs, soul occupy those streest I wonder.)

 i am tired of talking the same things. (i love what i use to fear.)
“but how can i trust you if the only thing i see is the back of your dress leaving me?”
“don’t ask me to stay in death.”
“what is this all that I have left?” knots clog up the smoothness of  “now I don’t fuck, because I believe it is not my life to live. Yet. don’t leave me. I am still unsure.”
“of what?”
“I am unable to breath.”
 “deep is how much I don’t care. get over it.”
“I can’t. please. just stay.” (but I have for so long forgotten how.)

the structures of my beginning and end, the middle is unwinding me so I have come here. because here I can fall apart and you won’t ask questions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fumbling  scent of
something
I cannot have is all in the name of
something
 dying in this nobody
balcony - boys exchange glances
bed -  me
overgrown
 I take another swallow of kampot. i choke on a cranberry
I am tired of talking
 i use to fear
back of your dress leaving me
 I have for so long forgotten how

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fumbling scent
of words
making something
I cannot have
a dance
with syllables
is all in the name of
something
in this dying fall
in this nobody
in this balcony
where boys exchange glances
creating images
like rond de jambes
across the mind.
bed pillow no light but a crack from bathroom across me
overgrown
I take another swallow of kampot. i choke
on a cranberry
I am tired of talking
of hoping
of waiting
I use to fear
but now nothing to hide
who cares about the meaning?
let the words never
create the same painting twice.
let them take anything from closet
in the imagination
like: back of your dress leaving me
I have for so long forgotten how.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fumbling scent
of words yet
spoken
yesterday’s tomorrows
making something
I cannot have.

a polka dance.

You said: you
I said: I  
with syllables about to be attered by a man in his 60s, with no work, with a wife who he forgets is still a woman, friends also sad and lonely, playing nardi on the street corners, talking about what was and what should have been. now nothings. 20 years ago
is all in the name of
something
in this dying fall
in this nobody
in this balcony
where boys exchange glances
creating images
like rond de jambes
across the mind.
bed pillow no light but a crack from bathroom across me
overgrown
I take another swallow of kampot. i choke
on a cranberry
I am tired of talking
of hoping
of waiting
I use to fear
but now nothing to hide
who cares about the meaning?
let the words never
create the same painting twice.
let them take anything from closet
in the imagination
like: back of your dress leaving me
I have for so long forgotten how.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fumbling scent of words yet spoken into ear of yesterday’s tomorrows.
lips parting, tongue exposing itself, your eyes are making something I
cannot have nor remember how to want.

a polka dance.

You said: you
I said: I
with syllables about to be uttered by a man in his 60s, with no work,
with a wife who he forgets is still a woman, friends also sad and
lonely, playing nardi on the street corners, talking about what was
and what should have been. now nothings.

20 years ago is all in the name of something in this dying fall, in
this nobody, on this balcony where boys exchange glances as I ask what
is wrong with this heartbreak creating images like rond de jambs
across the mind. my insanity randomness foolishness create the
ordinary into the extraordinary.

bed, pillow. there is no light but a crack from bathroom across me.
exposing overgrown aging me. I will die but first old age will make me
suffer humiliation of sagging failure. I take another swallow of
kampot. i choke on a cranberry. I am tired of talking, of hoping, of
waiting for the right anything. I use to fear but now nothing to hide.

who cares about the meaning?

let the words never create the same painting twice. let them take
anything from closet in the imagination like: back of your dress
leaving me. I have for so long forgotten how.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fumbling scent of words yet spoken into ear of yesterday’s tomorrows. sentences composed by your lips, eyebrows and your quiet glances should matter little I keep saying as I braid my hair.
lips parting, tongue exposing itself, your eyes are making something I
cannot recall as familiar.
The green apple there I don’t remember how to have nor remember how to want. It sits  patiently waiting for my desire to return.

a polka dance.
You said: you
I said: I
With unexpected calmness I wait for syllables about to be uttered by a man in his 60s. He thinks again, like he does everyday, (with no work, with a wife who he forgets is still a woman, friends also sad and lonely playing nardi on the street corners), should I continue this journey called life?
talking about what was
and what should have been. now nothings.

20 years ago is all in the name of something in this dying fall, in
this nobody, on this balcony where boys exchange glances as I ask what
is wrong with this heartbreak creating images like rond de jambs
across the mind. my insanity randomness foolishness create the
ordinary into the extraordinary.

bed, pillow. there is no light but a crack from bathroom across me.
exposing overgrown aging me. I will die but first old age will make me
suffer humiliation of sagging failure. I take another swallow of
kampot. i choke on a cranberry. I am tired of talking, of hoping, of
waiting for the right anything. I use to fear but now nothing to hide.

who cares about the meaning?

let the words never create the same painting twice. let them take
anything from closet in the imagination like: back of your dress
leaving me. I have for so long forgotten how.