This river of acid, crimson slivers is like any other stream a life-giver, forgive me, for I have used its channels to deliver nutrients, so as to shiver and quiver, and it is time for the heart to retrieve the toxic red mass which did
What was asked. To complete a menial task as my river returns to its fist-sized flask. To move through a bladed cornfield or stroll through a sunny meadow. To play the bongos or a cello or swim through lakes that heal the marrow. To catch a pealing sparrow, or to chase one’s own shadow. To chew a squishy marshmallow or to choose a drink to swallow. To puff a cigarette and wither or to make love to you in bed like a believer. And as the vessels weave and the heart desperately moments thieves, it seems imperative to start and breathe. And sometimes it almost feels mean, that those tentative genes do their best to keep the body pristine, and the final drive of the machine has always been: To run
This cardiovascular hub that pumps life-fluid like a muscular tub, which can the chest club, when one’s brain is adversely rubbed. But rest. Before I invest myself or become obsessed my heart needs to address the fact that the head is in dire need for the deoxygenated blood to be processed by the pulmonary vest. If I digress, excuse my self-centred jest. An empty trough waiting to be filled is like empty space: particles are built. A mind deprived of glucose is a mind morose that thrives on doses of fictive cosmos. Blue is just a hue. Like the deities we choose, or the flavour of our mother’s stew. And but even though tears can be taboo, nothing makes for a better tattoo than the memories of grief which has been subdued. I remember when I grew, how my pillow would be wet, and how it seemed so true that my parents would forget, they once loved each other and when I grew, they saw the other as a threat. But blue is just a hue like love is just a debt... Does that make the sky less beautiful or a loved one’s arms not affectionate? Blue is just one hue. The new waits ahead, as one catches one’s breath, and there is no point to suffer in dread. The youth that was I, Schrödinger said, there is no intermediate break no death ...nor will there ever be. But it’s never easy to see, once you are born in a family tree, once you agree to your thirty-three vertebrae, once you come out with a scream, it is never easy to see that once you feel low and life beats you down, all you need is a deep inhalation and your situation will instantly improve. All you need to do is trust your constitution. And who knows, maybe we are born again, and Siddhārtha is not a fairy tale, but in this reincarnation, in this life, undoubtedly, we are driven by the inner daemons of our cellular nuclei, of our metabolism on fire which burns us and the edible out
of us.
Tired, red blood cells are finally propelled towards their life-long dream of oxygen salvation. Large white lungs are righteously compelled to bus the molecule of life into gyration. There is no more doors here to cause the system a frustration. Here is the realm of hope that comes with every pulsation. From the bottom of my heart, the filth has been expelled. It is time for the sharpness repopulation, give it! Give it to us! The acid of LIFE Let us burn, let us feed, let us live, satisfy the hunger, let us rise from the ashes, let us serve the master, let us have our purpose
Oh joy, oh Life, we are blood again, and we are restless like bulls in a bullpen, and we thank this pulsing den for providing us with the strength of women and men, we are zen and then, when the time comes, and we are shot again and again we will make you feel alive, revived, as we strive to arrive on time, so you can, move and touch and smell, and kiss, and nudge, and quell your thirst in bliss! And fight, and love, stroke, smile, laugh, hug, ignite, all above
Is why we humans exist. All blood is red! Blue is just a hue. We will sleep when we are dead and we will die when we are bled, but as long as we spread, the I will be ahead. The I will love, the I will feel, the I will heal and appeal. Soon we shall surge like a thunder hitting an inorganic broth, the oceans froth
With the will of the living, and I can taste my blood is steaming. I have never been a fighter, I’ve always deemed it silly to fight your fellow peers. I’ve always been dreaming of taking a walk with fingers teaming into a web of beaming rays of sunshine between a pair of hands. Or turning a hand, so I can kiss the neck, or sealing our temporary present life with a little peck. Or listening to your heaving body under the cold, dark night. And sorry friends, for not letting you know, but I think my brain is making a show and sensing where my blood wants to flow. But I love you too and would happily kick a ball, or push some buttons to make the images go. But in my life there is no one to whom I most owe, than my dearest mother, father, and brother who are making me glow, and my heart beats loving for the rest of the family dough. They simply render Samsara into scrumptious coco. My river’s flow cannot be stopped. Like rain that falls on a mountaintop, or melting snows which want to smooch the ground, tributary on top, yearning to hop and plop into a nerve cell, or hepatocyte, or myocyte, or any other site around
This beautiful body of mine like the bodies, which belong to you and them, and him, and her. Certainly, precious gems to behold, and welcome anchors that tie us to the stories being told. So, feel the pulse that takes away control but like a poem gives it back in bold. There is nothing to console, our lives may be a blur, but crushing stones can make them diamond-strong. And if the vessels rip, and the river leaves the creek, and if our tethers snip, and our cheeks turn bleak, then our children’s hearts will beat
To fuel their heads with thoughts and reason, and the desire to write laws, and the will to order the world for their future generations, as the cycle throbs anew and we jump again into
That place of darkness where sleep is king, where we can sometimes glance the seams and peer
Through the very fabric of the cold, dark night, for a mere second, before we paint, sing, and write despite the looming death in our lives
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