Enduring essential

You cannot name those cut flower stems, they are irredeemable. You cannot count your love affairs by the number of flowers you've cut, you are unrepentant. Your fingers are marred by the scissors but you've only managed to scratch the surface. 

Bildungsroman

I will now be quiet and still in this ambience of populated silence. I now feel ready to express their certainty that there is no beginning nor middle nor end in the howling of the fire illuminating our hearts. There might not be a clear route of escape from the flames, nor a slit in the arteries for us to slip through and join the myriads of oxygenated bubbles that reach the entries and exits of our bodies. 

The despair of non returned love, like a fallen seagull in the poisoned sand, tears us apart. I would love to see the brave and infuriated enamoured sea brawling at last, retrieving and letting go of us sea tourists who lost the way a long time ago, but that's not going to happen; neither will our night time readings dispel from our dreams after incising in our skin the blueprint of their spell. 

She doesn't love you, but you keep on writing this bildungsroman that places her as the centre point of your education. 

Stendhal Syndrome: give in to the flooding

Yes, I sing her body electric, her passion and doom, her torn blood and light in a vacuum. These comings and goings between the selves. How could I perjure against your favourite writer? Me, who lives immerse in the rapids, the heartbeats of the word and verb and virgo. I thank you for not contesting nor rejecting me for my ignorance about this. My blueprint, my base is my belief in rescuing myself from my memory drifting. I need something alive and burning on the page to shake me and get me out of my constant stupor. An arrow of truth, a speech, a valid ticket to transit towards embodying my alter egos. I have not witnessed enough fear to decide that I'm that person in a parallel world, confronting reality, fighting and ending defeated. My defence strategies are crumbling though as I read. Your books leave me unprotected and expectant.

The calico braids and husk of the words of my new readings shine like the penetrating gaze of the silver fox lost in the urban darkness. The end verb, the nightfall in verse of your books let me discover that I was also blinded, lost after crossing the threshold of the downs, the frontier. I wonder the streets tonight and stop and window gaze in front of closed bookshops. Despite this when I get near yours, I turn around. 

I'm afraid of my inquisitorial delusions, my vagueness as I speak to you. I try to go unnoticed in your bookshop, and zigzag around the floral center that accommodates books that are urgent, those perfectly understated covers, and I head towards the wall shelves, towards safey. I buy your books and take them outside the bookshop, into the street to gather oxygen, to feel the fresh air and stop smelling of new paper pulp, to get their pages intercalated and pressed in the falling rain. 

Verse greengrocers and narrative spiritualists stay outdoors and the night flees. Those who know that books are also written on scraps of paper, words smuggled in jail, over bundles of serpentines, on those exhausted calendars whose pages have been torn and bereft of the endless days and months.

I buy books from the one-eyed man who sells inconceivable literature at one o'clock in the morning. I watch him with a smile of hidden complicity when he suddenly remembers his whereabouts and makes me a list of books that have not sold yet, then sucks his thumb and runs it along their spines (his memory is tactile). His glass eye is pending and chases with stern looks like light beams those book thieves that gather around aimlessly (they are all students), those who skirmish and fuss and leave. 

I relax my shyness instinct and tell him impossible stories and fables, despite retrieving it later when people approach us and I realise that they want to steal my books away from me.

After talking to you I have chosen to browse febrile dystopias that torment me with their violent language cracking the fuselage open and raw. These ideas are pure as the piercing cold in the snow, and writers dump them in literature sprees, widening the spacing of their writings, shooting projectiles as dirty as stained stars falling in their revealing delirium.

Now that you're my bookseller I can not escape. In can't backtrack into the trenches of thought and emotion. You've narrated those poems that I can read in the subway 
without covering the front cover with my fingers, wishing that people read my book over my shoulder instead of pushing my rucksack in unison as they force my body against the metal bars of the train. If they knew what I'm reading they would allow me to travel, to continue my journey as a flaneuresse .

Well, I'm choking on the words, I reflect my gulps on the patina of my coffee, I sink into the couch, and as I read I search for impossible positions to place my body and rest on the page. You are to blame for this.

I took the book you told me about, and let my fears loose; in fact, I forgot them. I wonder why you pushed me in the direction of this dazzling darkness, the misery and desperation and blinding truth of les poètes maudits. 

Why? Well, I'll have to find out before I am able to get back to you and say something worthwhile ...

Tonight

Tonight I'm me. In this brash edge of the night, tonight I'm me. I get rounded in the corners and straightened at the curves, but tonight I'm me. 

It is all

This fragrant vibrancy that overwhelms the sites of my desire and composes the tenets on which I stand.   

we loved all this II

The lines get cut off at the end, stranded, like your hair over my body, handcuffed and curvy. You lay on spices and flaming tattoo screens on my skin.  

we loved all this

It's the view what we requested. A simple thing: the view. It was all a desire for refuge, for shelter, for embodiment. And there we were: transient, impulsive, errant, seeking fragrances and sentient lights. We loved all this.