Between meaningless and meaningful

Before the sun sets 

                I need to find you somewhere in between the mobilizing rays of the day and the paralyzing beam of nothingness.

But I can’t. I can’t. 

I can’t find you anywhere else but only in between the purest field of birds of paradise in a good soil and the dark blood drawn chariot of a cursed sky.

As the sun gradually sets in kindness, I can’t,  I can’t, I can’t see you around the swollen clouds of death and of irrelevance. 

It seems I haven’t laughed at the parody yet 

I can’t, I can’t bring myself to act upon the abundant noise of mutual futility 

Where fertility does not matter 

Where priority becomes not even the second best 

Where the choice to fill in the void is atrocious 

And I can’t,  I can’t meet you even within the exact rendezvous

Find me. Find me between meaningless and meaningful 

Whereby one is left to figure out the only ‘meaning’ in between. 

 

The only pessimism is to remain a pessimist

I am knocking down the concrete walls in the streets like fresh umbrella mushrooms,

Hitting hard the grand temples of your depressed mind

Pricking the waterless drops of tears in your soul-less eyes

And you tell me,

There is no beauty in family -abuse; raping daughters of sunrise, digging out family inheritance.

Absolutely No. There is no beauty in cruelty, in death in this world compiled in a black chapter book where there is only humans slaughtering men in abattoirs.

There is no beauty in seclusion, in indifference, in randomness even in the plenitude of human affairs.

No, there isn’t.

This world is a controlled HQ where us is kept within a panic room like a child with Asthma sustained merely by some allergy drops.

Life according to a neurotic mind is one remote control with a single click —– flushed out and doomed —– like an automatic toilet bowl invented in Japan or in Germany by another great scientist from the year 8080.

One day you’ll meet a tall, dark stranger ; a movie director ransacking deathbeds, digging deep to show NO beauty in a mother’s cry for her children’s dead bodies.

There is only enough limit in which the human mind can take the evil horrors of life.

So before we become more alienated…

Into the heart of darkness, let your eyes see the unsung childhood sailing away forever

Look deep into the pictures not of golden harvest and organic flush of wind but of war crimes, skin discoloration, the commercialized face-lift, nose jobs and tender oil suction, the poisonous bombing and the publicized hand-served of the UN tribe in a plate of dystopia.

Yes, you told me these words from the other worlds.

Yet as actors and bare performers on a stage with different acts and rotating backdrops, if you know,  the ‘cirque du soliel’ we are.

Go into the heart of things to witness how the world rattles one after the other as people scream in despair with a doggish mind unfollowing god -serving butterflies reinventing the color-wheel eight octaves higher.

As you perceive the Earth, human beings and life in general —

Searching for light with all the good beyond all evil in yourself and the cyclical mud-view that creeps into being,

With all these, you want me to figure it all out.

To see them in your light; I do.

Because we live in the same pig-pen fed of the same pig-sty.

Yes. You tell me everything.

But.

I can’t carry the same seed even if I’m the only one stupid, joke -immuned girl reduced to misunderstand the truth of life’s meaninglessness. 

You tell me, you have a much rancor towards life. 

Isn’t that unfortunate? 

To disqualify yourself of a single life with the way you regard life to be meaningless. 

Isn’t the one who contradicts it desires most of it?

If this is the ground where we lay the foundation, 

All must have committed suicide; —-

           removed of the vitality for life. 

On our Death Bed

It’s four o’ clock in the morning.                                                                                                                 The earth prepares for twilight.                                                                                                                 As the clouds regurgitate its splendid moment of nudity, your breathing descends immensely. I whisper to you, Remember the day you asked me about my age?                                               You said, “how old are you?”                                                                                                                         You laughed so hard when you saw my mercurial reaction.                                                                  So hard your dimples shaped the flesh in your cheeks at 20.                                                     And I felt I was at my 29th year again. 

Dearest,

This respirator might defeat your frail body but never will it succumb the high-spirit in you.                                                                                                                                                                     Throw wide the memories we had like quicksilver for they were fated to be watched like little slates of flashback episodes of our love.                                                                                       Sleep soundly and contain only me in your anxious child’s heart.                                                   Let me wan all acts of self-betrayal done by your restless fear of leaving the fruits of our honest labor in this world stained by piqued hardships and disgust.

Dearest love,

I’ll hold the same palms on our wedding day,                                                                                      

   I’ll thresh the same finger tips now calloused and overdosed by your encroaching empathy and trust. 

…On our death bed will sleep together like we knew this bed is ours and ours to keep.

—–

On our death bed at 25, 34, 52, 68, 79 years we’ll live our lives twice.