Spaces of Love 1 Equipped with a space suit (Imagined immunity) I dive into vast airy planets of yours. We meet, fingers crossed, Spiral vectors untwined, Your chronicles getting entangled with mine. Projecting our nebulous Days turned to lore, Our act of creation For all to observe, imitate and restore. (Oh, well, with some honestly tiny exception, A passionate splurge I would never divulge.) It’s dawdling sometimes But it’s probably worth it - I'll make you immortal, You got close enough. A last silent witness Recording existence. Voidwalker Exploring The Spaces Of Love. 2 Remove all your carpets Before you invite me. I got used to falling On cold and hard floors. I'm not good at cleaning, I'm not good at sailing Through murky mixed signals And other mixed things. I got good at flying Those spaceships of yellow Through last nights deleted, Though black holes (hearts) to home. (You removed all safety nets, your defenses, your secrets, the space between our lips, so why don't you remove your fucking carpets, how about that?) Remove all your carpets Before you invite me. I got used to falling On cold and hard floors. Can't get so much worse, Can't hurt so much more, I've fallen For you After all. 3 A memory, A fleeting moment, A clingy pestering creature Crawled from the ocean so long ago. So, let’s rehash The same old story, Let’s pull again The same old tail. (Did it always have a tail?) So, let’s rewash The same old tale (It still loves salty water, apparently) Till the coasts of left and right hemispheres Get washed away… 4 All poets are liars. All lovers are addicts. And lips, tongues and teeth - They are all precious coins. For buying some freedom, Connections, confessions, For getting a fix... And for an overdose. 5 This expedition was not fruitless. We found something that allows us To tamper with existing laws, To twist, distort and to transform And still remain alive and whole. It’s poetry -
The only way To get away With anything. 6 I’m stuck and I’m drained, and I’m chocked with frustration. My head’s cycle setting is permanent press. My brain getting squeezed by a hopeless intention - Producing six poems in only four days. Those empty white pages, they mockingly track me. I’m stumbling in deadlines and dragging through dread. Those muses no longer can find me attractive And words are refusing to join me in bed. I can’t recognize lines popped up with endeavor - They look and they sound not like me at all. I let them run free, all those cords must be severed, I’d likely do my worst and gladly be done. *** Whatever it is, dear destiny, bring it, But make me inspired and make me complete. My fingers are striking an end and beginning, I frame and present all this meaningless s*** :D :D :D #rantover
