Because within these pillars, I am undulating - demise, verve.
Georgia shakes with a cup of tea in hand, as Charlie wafts like the smoke to skive her lips - without question, Charlie and the enigma are one and the same. Georgia stays silent, sipping her cup of broken bliss. “Your literature is beautiful.” Georgia said in hindsight - there is something amiss in one of her hazel eyes. The cerulean sky leans into forked twilights. “I love you.” Charlie had said, sternly and continued:
“I love you -
Immensely like the night,
Like the fire that fans
Into incineration - I am the fire,
And you are the vine;
I love you,
In a height that wuthers
Into a toboggan winter.
I love you, like I have never known
A love, a woman, a shadow,
A stranger, a dagger hurled
To the chest, and bones that rattle
In the oblivion that shatters
Me like cold glass;
It is certain, I love you,
Impassably - I love you,
With no exits - I love you,
With no escape.
I love you like death -
I loom and you run away from me,
And I chase you still and clear,
You shake me in sleep,
And I arrive at dawn,
Faster, punctual than your truant Sun;
I love you like the Sea,
I love you like the greater Mediterranean current,
Until it grows swollen with
Intense love, vacuous with joy
And sprightly with wave-symphony.
I love you until you drown
And like flotsam, you will rise,
And I will cradle you to the shores -
I love you - too much like a flower
Upon death, and life after demise;
I love you in consummation
And I will grow greater than
Your heart, your love
I will surpass your winter
And outlast your being;
I will devour your love,
Like a shadow upon a wall,
Or a wallflower impaled to
Your soliloquy - that is I,
I persist like a flame in your hands,
Like a dank kiss upon your mouth -
I will never go astray;
Pray that I live forever -
I do so as well.”
And there was silence.
For the sake of the carnations,
Thrive in the stillness of my wind -
In verity, it is certain, the times are troubled
Like placid waters stirred by ravishing gales.
The expanse is incendiary, like reservoirs
Of nothing but ebony fluid – there is nothing
In here but frosted mourns and petrified touches;
I stand in the finite strand of your hair,
And sometimes I recall like a familiar road,
The curves and prominences of your arms,
The bow of your legs, the placating sanguinity
Of your tears like the zenith upon my arid region;
Underneath your sky in the equinox, I write
The equilibrium of your lips, the grin leaping
From both canthi, the inflorescence of your enigmatic forest,
And the sly secrets like a hidden flame -
The nights forge hills chained to each other
Like lattices that slough off in the night
That disentangles them like a rascal in a prairie -
Look at me hazel eyes, and look at my love
That burns like one of my vermilion eyes;
Soon this distance will close and seal shut,
Like the shutters of your eyes in somnolence,
Hands that fritter into mad twining, lips that
Are raw with sedulous love – masqueraded
By the darkness, you will emerge like one
Of the radiant stars in my nightfall;
These times are perilous -
It perseveres with a spiteful dagger
And the waiting islets of counsel
Are far-fetched behind the solstice of reprieve -
The fires of squalor are unbeknownst as they heighten:
Wait for me, in secret, in brazenness
Across the razed walls of fire and the frigid
Porticos of ice – wait for me, with your hands
That quaver like the trees in a brash wind,
With your immense eyes that engulf the moon,
Tousling it into mornings of aubade that leads
Me closer and closer to our undertaking:
Wait for me, my solstice-muse, far up
In the firmaments, I will seize you:
You are mine, I am yours.
The night crosses – like a soldier
Upon the bastion of adversaries,
Like a vine past the heavy wall
Of dead leaves and powerless rustles:
The earth shakes but makes no sound.
The night crosses – like your fingers
Upon my clothing, like the penumbra
That crosses the mountainous kindred
Of soil and grasses with roots tethered
Like daggers upon bellicose hands;
The night crosses – athwart and gyratory,
Moving swiftly like the wind, sluggish
Like the punctuality of time upon the firmament:
The night crosses, in unison with the miasmas
Of not having you here in this vast night, emptied.
The night crosses – fails to sojourn
And narrates a slender chance of rain,
Even the wails blather like thieves,
Somber and veiled like a moon bleared
By the loving hands of tender clouds in the silent dark.
The night crosses – with lengthening feet,
Like a secretive feline upon the crown of an abode,
Or the relentless sleuthing of a thief upon
Silken things – it pillages all that is left by the dawn,
Leaving no trace but the footsteps engraved like a nameless stonework.
The night crosses – like a light that trespasses
The iron drapes of a crystal morning – I feel
Its magnetic touch upon my skin, the night and you,
Ruthless and accurate – deadly with exactness;
I live in this night that arrives with the death of my morning.
At night I dream of you in hysteria,
In madness, and in the blight of not knowing
How the rivers fail to reach the seas.
At night I dream as if you were wine
I drink in the day as I go on moseying -
Drunken and elated as if you are the
Only thing I know, the only thing that has
Been passed on like oblivion to your palms,
Or your palms to another, you world
Upon a sea of lament – caged fire and longing,
Like how you have been passed on through
Time with each pummel of clock-arms,
The timetables tremble like a butterfly of furor;
I felt the fracas of your ruinous steps
Shake me in the night like riverbeds
Upon stone floors impacted with fear and void
Of the dark current that runs right by
The juxtaposition of genuflecting mountains and hills
That clothe your being.
At night I dream as if we were:
Two worlds colliding – our fragments
Scatter like the stars befallen upon
Your acquiescing tapestry; and like
Wanderers, the lunar-liquor of the starry
Nightsky, I descry the luminous secrets
Of each star during nightfall, like blood,
Like your flesh, like your unearthing breaths
That girdle the trees, that smite foliages,
That bludgeon the stars to each of their stations
As I narrate to you their songs of coruscations.
At night I dream as if I love you for too long:
Like a secret upon mouth, like the writhing
Of the waves against the surge of potent wind,
Like how the sands accumulate by the shores,
Satiating the vale with nothing but rambling motions.
At night I dream as if we were
Nothing more but mortals wanting
To be gods – loving like gods,
Drinking like gods, carrying diadems
Of consummation and saluting
Like flowers of conflagrations -
At night I dream as if waking
Is impossible.
How I stride from
Wanting you to possessing you,
And how I love you
To go from exacerbating
Is the enigma of everything
That conceals with flowers -
How I go from
Wishing upon stellar musings
To destroying them each one,
Blowing them like suspended
Candles of sadness…
I am at the cataract
Of jealousy -
I want you for myself,
I want you for myself alone,
And alone as an unattended star
At night, the lonely north
Freezes as the tassels
Of woebegone auguries
Are worn out and played
Like a farce -
Even the gods laugh
At me, this mimicry
Of wanting everything
To not having everything -
How my fire pledges the vow
Of the wintry rendezvous;
I want you for myself
And how I want to trap your
Tears and make them my own wine
To drink in the night where
Your absence causes me to wrap
The light into sobriety;
The secrets of the felines
Arise from where the shadows sleep deeply,
And as indulgent as the last leaf
Falling upon the floor,
Here I am waiting still upon
The invitation of the winter to herald
My simple request: I want you for myself
Yet the gods seem to be sleeping,
And the woman enjoys willowy sleep.
I love you, like how a lighthouse tolls
To the abyssal, to the caliginosity of the trenches,
And sometimes, with how I love you,
I drown.
Oblivion y los celos:
I am as helpless as a child
Stripped of innocence
As I am in the grasp
Of a green-eyed beast’s
Labyrinthine belly.
And oblivion -
Its eager hands of wrathful claim,
Shatters me like a wine-glass: reticent, fragile -
Upon my walls where squalid ivies grow.
There is an anger
Trapped within my hands,
Like an ivy clambering my solitude-walls;
I hold the vitriol
Of the gods and the selfishness
Of the sea -
I want you for myself alone,
Like how the Summer owns
The pathways of the Earth,
Like how the contenders
Own the room for fire,
Like how the winter dissipates
Upon a sun-soaked terrain;
I want you for myself,
Your hurting, your dying -
I am as jealous as an orphaned lover,
Watching the love-making of the Sun
And the cleavage of the hills;
I want to be the dagger
That assails you - I want to be
The fusillade of morose bullets
That hunt you in this squalid warfare;
I am selfish - and I want you
For myself alone, like how the
Petals blossom in the height of autumn,
Like how the snows make the trees
Shiver and the boughs are dead with frost -
I want you for myself,
Myself alone - in this straightforward selfishness,
Like a blood-curdled sword
Unraveled from a scabbard of tumult.
I want you for myself,
This - I am either a jealous god
Or a selfish child -
I want you for myself
But it does not work that way,
The machinism fails
At the tedious tidings of my vying.
O, high noon, assuage my hunger if you ought
But never the savagery of my heart – unrelenting!
O, rampant revelry, fill my cup of chagrin,
Empty the reservoirs for the night to own,
But you can never strip me of my longing -
It is her, the accuracy of her laugh like bayonets,
The silken thigh, the silhouette that disguises her,
The slender posture of her towering arms,
It is what her autumn does to the winter of my boughs,
The lineage of her infinite eyes that is passed
On through centuries of splendors, nobilities and moieties -
Her being carries the wine, holds the revelry,
Crafts the sustenance that my oppressed soul needs!
Woman of immeasurable beauty, you are timeless
Like fabled stories of art and war – and it is you,
A motioning feast, an august carousal – you hold
The wine to my intoxication, the provision to my starvation
As oblivion shatters us wholly like weathered glass.
The rook-like noon, the charade of fools, the reservoirs
Of finicky wine and the night that is transmuted from
Stone and not created by deep, hazel eyes are all but futile!
I am famished over the stars spilled in the tapestry, I beseech
You and not these imperfect machinations;
Only you can keep me drunk in the sobriety of mundane epitomes,
And you have plucked me out as I am quieted, riveted in
The bed of the silent clay – and now it is as if
I cannot be drunk enough to outlast the cold – it is you
That I need, always in the height of this possession.
Carnal as a lustful ploy,
I inveigled fate like a trickster of time:
I worked well in this treachery.
It is I that manipulated the hands of
The resistant clocks, that interweaved
Rue with all that is blossoming in love,
And in you everything sprang anew,
Like a growing sea of obscure fires,
Or the galvanization of the hearts
Forged like a sword of blood and flesh;
Your blood and flesh,
Your pillars and your sentries,
Your beacons even, that are brazen
Like the somersault of the wind,
Slicing the summer of my longing.
It is I that defied the boundaries
Of what love speaks of in a language
Genuine and straightforward – I rummaged
To your locked door like a thief
Nimble and dexterous, I have stolen
All that is there to thieve in your
Hidden lair and I have uttered
Each and every prayer that lingers
Upon the sinewy thread of your lips.
Love, it is the power that I hold
Over the night, over the immense seas,
Over the high plateaus and the
Sharpened mountains that led
My feet to where you are sleeping,
Led my hands to where you touch
The fissured walls that separate
Our clandestine destinies.
It is I, and not the gods,
Not the seraphs, not the enigmas
With flowers, and not the flowers
With thorns, and not the thorns
That narrate warfares -
It is only I that was sculpted
In such a falsified outline like
That of a wry sword to sift
From living for you to dying for you.
