The Living.

Once I had a dream. It was a beautiful dream, it touched me gently with its warmth. I flew in the clouds as happy as one may ever be, I dreamt of dreams that I knew would come true. One day, I knew they would all be true, and I standing amidst them, in that affectionate abundance of their existence, breathless, stunned, looking at them, following them flow, admiring and exalting them, from the beginning of time to the very last strand of it.

The Dreamer.

 

O

nce I had a dream. It was a beautiful dream, touched me gently with its warmth. I flew in the clouds, swam in the deepest oceans with sea horses, climbed the highest mountains and saw the brightest skies. I saw the moment I was born, heard songs from my past, felt the first kiss on my lips again, underwent everything I ever did, recalled only the good things in my past life.

 

I was not wicked or malignant anymore. I did not feel fresh spring like breezes tickling my down-there hair, nor did red wine raise that feverish, poetic intoxication in me urging to write or get laid, nor was I the first one to just about-finish the crosswords in that little café somewhere by the river. I no longer understood the difference between right and wrong, not between good and evil, moral and immoral, life and death; I was solely empty of all my able spasms of feeling something; I was solely happy.

 

I drove around the grounds on the bus. Walked our unchanged routes in our city. Played pool, sauntered down the crowded streets, smoked cigarettes and drank coffee, or maybe even a pint for lunch in sandwiches stead, in harmony. Got more tattoos. I went to school, just like I used to. Met my old friends, once again shared all those things we always did. Late nights, heavy boozing, drugging, fucking all over the city, I being, though youngest, the most zestful of us all.

 

And then, on one of my Sunday afternoon strolls, at the corner of Parliament and East Essex Street, as a matter of chance, a superlative fulfilment of my delight: I met her again, the Love of my life.

 

 

T

he dream I had, it was a beautiful dream. It touched me gently with its warmth. Warmth and deception. It felt so real, oh, so real, and I believed in it. I almost did. I wanted to believe that all those things really happened, so immaculate they were, bona fine, delightful, known by heart, through my sacrifices, devotion and affection. I found happiness with her. Happiness and everlasting love.

 

Is not it peculiar, that solely I live in my dreams and wishes for the future? I never felt the striking hand of God when I was awake, neither did I feel pain, nor genuine joy, real desire. I never knew life. But when I fell asleep, I found another reality, I found the life I always wanted to have.

 

There, the dream, it confounded me, it tempted me deep into its diabolical raptures. The insanity triggered off by but my own fantasies, it brought me to ruins. No accounting me for a human being, I was merely a faint whisper, deteriorating paint on walls, a shadow writhing between trees, a memory that no one even thought of.

 

 

I

was alright then. And so was my life. I was just like anyone else. I had even taken out my piercings and covered my tattoos. No more torn jeans or safety pins or shirts bearing my overcast ideals, all those follies of my teens were past. Had I stood in the middle a crowd, no one would have taken any special notice on me, I was dead ordinary, descended into safe and sound mediocrity. I had learnt to live again, after all those years of despair, struggling and hate. Hate for myself. Struggle against the world that didn’t seem to put up with me.

 

I accepted the agonizing facts of true life, and then renounced them, I cloaked them under my new clothes and face. I changed everything, my name too. I moved away from the old town and began a new life. I escaped from my prison, I forsook the life that never could nor would bring me happiness. Not once did I look back. And they, my past people, they never saw me again.

 

My life was as though living under sedatives, I controlled myself perfectly, went on playing the part I had picked up. All the same, I was unable to feel anything. Merely comparable to a machine I was. Panting, puffing and chuffing from a day to another not knowing why, gaining no pleasure in it. I did not yearn for the sates brought by wine, nor feel the animal instincts that would have driven me to satisfying my sexual needs.

 

I was completely unyielding, nothing could waver me. My faith to myself had grown strong, I was most self-assertive and independent. Morality was of secondary importance to me when I chose the new life, I waived all my principles and pride, prostituted myself to the Devil in a no different way to a common harlot. I really did, for my soul and body, He gave me a new chance. A chance to, at long last, find something to live for.

 

Did I find happiness or something to sincerely live for, that I do not know. But I lived. And happiness, I assured myself that it was true. I did not have a reason to die, it would have been too much of an effort, or to deny that lavish and comfy life I was leading. I had no conscience left, neither guilt, nor soul, no more than my rigid body, the instrument that brought me life, the bally instrument, the utensil. Yes, I was a whore. Lowlife. Unworthy. Indecent. Scarlet Woman. La Traviata.

 

When they have found happiness as they are, why could I not?

When they do not deny themselves, why should I?

If there is such thing as love, why should I not find it too?

 

And I could pretend no more. How it happened, oh, I can not tell that for sure, something in me just changed and I found myself again. After all those years I had lived someone else’s life, I bumped into the real me very accidentally.

 

 

O

ne night I had a dream. I saw the deepest of my wishes. I found some sort of a minor enlightenment and everything was clear before me. I had lost myself, sold myself and degraded myself, but suddenly it mattered no more, someone took those times away, erased them from my past. In a way, I was redeemed, someone or something wiped those times out, forgave my mistakes. I was forlorn, but not forgotten; there someone remembered me and saved me.

 

I knew it right away, what to do. I fled from the world. Left everything behind me and simply disappeared. To ease my pain, to estrange myself from the world that had injured me. Only woes had it brought to me, woes and hatred. I had not one reason to stay, only a thousand to leave.

 

So I decided, so I did. I ran away from the world, for a while hid in the shadows trying to regain my strength and courage for my superior plan. The world had hurt me so. It never let me live, so why as simply as that could I not die?

 

The flight. I knew exactly how to do it, in my dreams I had done it so many times before. But that very day, that day I went further than I had ever gone, that day it was forged into reality. My very own crooked smile, that well-known warped grin, on my face I escaped, it was my revenge. My revenge and redemption. A flight into the great unknown, one vast leap from the miseries of human life into freedom and infinite rest.

 

 

I

followed my tracks back to my past. I saw the moment I was born, I heard the songs from my past, I felt the first kiss my the lips again, went through all I ever did, I recalled the good things in my life.

 

I faced my worst mistakes, I put them right. I encountered the people I had hurt, I bound their wounds. I understood the gravity of my reckless life, lowered my head and I apologised.

 

Then, there, I saw what an unaffected, horrid, appalling creature I was, I closed my eyes and uttered one prayer towards Heaven. Were there someone or something, he or it would fulfil this ones last wish of mine. He would forgive and forget, and let me drift into slumber.

 

 

P

arliament and East Essex Streets’ corner once more. I simply could not believe my eyes. I had been convinced that I would never see her again, I never even dared to wish that I would fall into that same angelic, heavenly dream again.

 

I used to love her, at least in one of my dreams, love her so exceptionally dearly. And there she was, stood before my very eyes. She had not changed a bit. Not a tad in the course of all those years. The unaffected young, beautiful face, vivid deep green eyes, tender smile with a hint of chaste maliciousness, slender, tempting body, feathery yet determined step.

 

I did not know how to get a word out of my mouth, I was incapable of everything but being frozen still eyes open wide in awe. The euphoric unforeseen happenstance stole my breath away for a fair while. That rapturous twist of fate and the agonising burst of guilt and remorse that overcame me. Was it the first time I ever felt truly blameworthy?

 

What could I have said to mollify her and make her stay? Would she simply smack me or walk off offended by any word that passes the misshapen villain’s lips? Flaming wrath in her eyes stare back at me, scorch me down to the ground with that mordant depraved hostility only a crestfallen broken heart possesses, hiss all those spiteful words and swears  on my face that I, in truth, even indisputably deserved?

 

I had come to revisit my past. Yet I was far more inexperienced, hesitant and indecisive than I ever was. Did I slightly tremble then, redden? Did I turn my head away in trepidation, then bow my head to tell her how remorseful I was? I did appear somewhat daft, did I not?

 

 

A

n actress, that is what she truly was. A drama queen, an artist. There greeted me with affection and care, her arms open wholeheartedly wide kissed me on both cheeks. Asked about my life and told me how vastly she had longed for me. Kissed me on the mouth, gazed deep into my eyes and soul as if she had never thought of me with sourness and scorn.

 

I could not speak of anything about my life, still did not even dare to open my mouth in fear of shattering that one picturesque moment, her beatific eloquent monologue. I only wanted her to linger there next to me, to carry on with her flattering terms until all worlds part, and there wilt away by her side.

 

We promenaded along the rived bank, as we used to years back. I could not get my eyes out of her. She was so much more than I had envisaged, not only a fading memory, neither a foggy dream nor a deceitful castle in the air. How could I ever… Why on earth had I forgotten about her, deserted her? Why did I ever sell myself and leave all that bliss behind me? How could I have failed to remember?

 

There I recalled all the beautiful things we had done as we sauntered around the city and talked. Without a proper target, just for the pleasure of walking together, her arm in mine. All those dear pictures, moments, returned to my head. She was my aim, being with her I had already reached my destination.

 

Who is the sodding ruddy wankhard who claimed that I never was happy? Sitting next to her in snowfall, laughing and dancing in empty halls, shopping wine and cigars, hiding in shrubs from the park guards, having lunch in the green full of blossoming daffodils, smoking on those doorsteps we both know so well, breathing quietly in a dark night in unison…

 

Now I know why the past came back haunting me so relentlessly: I am in love with it.

 

 

I

have found life. It is a beautiful girl, a girl who touched me gently with her warmth. Together we flew in the clouds, swam in the deepest oceans with sea horses, climbed the highest mountains and saw the brightest skies. She feels so real, oh, so real, I believe in her. I so very much do. All these things are truly happening, immaculate, bona fide, and delightful, I know them by heart, through my sacrifices, devotion and affection.

 

This I tell: I have found happiness with her. Happiness and everlasting love. Banished mortal burdens from my body, raised our serene unity up to celestial spheres.

 

My dreams are my life. I am sound asleep. God knows that I never want to wake up again. I do not want to see the reality, for in my dreams I am, at long last, happy. The reality duffed me up, a cripple I remain emotionally. I never want to see the real me in the mirror again. I am a beast. Hideous, ghastly. I want to dream forever.

February Rendezvous

I

 have never loved you this much. Although I thought that no man or woman could ever love another as much as I love you; now I know that it is possible. For every day I love and miss you more and more. My love to you grows stronger and firmer with every breath I take and glance I shed to the world. It does, oh, it does.

 
My love hurts like hell. It hurts and makes my heart weep. It squeezes my heart and soul, I can’t breathe, I can’t think. It’s you, all about you. In my heart you are the pain. The pain that will never cease. The pain that in the end will claim my life. The sweetest of all, oh, do never leave!

Are you ever bored? Bored with me trying to tell you the extent of my love? You never should. For it grows wider and wider all the time. Although there are so very few words in this world to describe my love to you, never abandon them, for all through our lives I shall try to use them to speak to you, to speak of my love. My love is an endless sea raging until the end of all times. For you, for you alone. Never doubt my word, there is no-one else for me.

 
This world bores me. Seeing and hearing all these people thinking that they are in love. Hypocrite it would be to say that they do not love unless I proved them wrong. And with the following lines I prove them wrong: Does your heart ever cry for the depth of your love, for the longing and the need to feel it? Mine does. Tonight, do you weep for just the thought of your loved one? I do, with all my body. Before you I am weak. For you I am. For the love I feel.

It impales my heart. Knowing that I will meet you one of these coming days and then leaving you. I never want to leave you, never, never, never! It smears my spirit, knowing that once I already did. Please, my Beloved, don’t let me do it again. Keep me locked in your heart and never let go. Let me slumber in the blissful haven of your presence, please, let me die if I can’t have you. If I died, would you die with me? I always thought that you would. For love who wouldn’t do that?

 

If we ever were to live old, would you love me all through the years? Would your love ever fade, would it leave you cold and heartless to me? Will the years gnaw your love until they reach the bone, until you are hardened and feel nothing towards me? Please tell me that the years will not take over you.

 
I believe in you. I believe in us. We shall become true and there is no-one who can stop us.
 
Your Poet

Early February 2007

 

 

I

t may have been dark, so dark that you could not see anything, only black as far as your eyes reach, you could smell it, hear it and even taste it. Its wide arms so warm and affectionate, caressing all your sores and scratches away, rocking you into bliss with its gloomy and beauteous tacit lullaby. Overcoming, cloaking you with its deep ebony cloak with starry lining, willing and, alas!, keeping your eyes seeing only dark and silver and frenzied nightly beasts and spooks and dreams and desires!

 

Or maybe daylight, sunlight!, rapidly, yet soothingly enough not to aware us of its coming, flooded into our room and drowned and blinded and inebriated us into a state of hibernation and utter nonchalance, the pair of little hobgoblins, servants of the pale Luna, creatures of the night. If not a cloudless sunny day, it may just as well have been dull and grey and bland, so very tedious, most probably late afternoon, post lunch, that we never awoke to its nature not worthy of paying any attention to.

 

The room smelt of candle wax running down the long crown candles, whittled from the bottom end to fit into the mouths of empty wine bottles that served us as aptly bohemienne candle sticks; reasonably priced incense rolls bought from the little corner shop with equally inexpensive local red wine and ricotta cheese; unrelenting dalliance of l’amour enlightened younglings in a February rendezvous after myriad days of lovelorn lives apart; lusty red wine, in inhales, in exhales, in every kiss given, in every kiss received, in each sigh of delight, in each cry of gratification; and post-love-making tobacco smoke, red Marlboro and Drum.

 

The air was thick but neither heavy nor disagreeable to breathe, but voluptuous and luxuriant and purely seeping condensed bliss, dripping it like an old tap. Like a light spring rain, it drizzled on us, in that rain of affection we laughed and danced and got soaked, ‘twas not cold, not warm, but tender, young and fresh, on our equally tender, young and fresh bodies. The unending dance of fire and wind had begun, our waltz high on the clouds and starlit skies, on and over restless stormy oceans and tranquil deeps, both fields of golden wheat and snow, from the beginning of all time to the very last moment of it: untarnished, immaculate, pristine young love. Revelry! Rapture!

 

…Maybe ‘twas night, for the air indeed was like an affectionate embrace caressing all our sores and scratches away, rocking us into bliss with its gloomy and beauteous tacit lullaby.

 

-Ah!, most probably it was dark, ‘twas night! Maybe newly set dusk or soon rising dawn. Lovers live in the dark heart of night. Only lovers live in the dark heart of the night. There no-one is awake. For anyone who there is awake then must die.

 

 

S

ilvery moonlight a distant glare on the sky, ablaze; introverted, reservedly but indisputably rageous, the Devoted Mother of the Night, the One with Ashen Face, the Empress of Darkness, there, a-far, Luna beholds the world so utterly immobile in Her tranquil arms. There from Her high above kingdom She beholds me clad in naught but love lying on my back. A broad smile spreads on Her face and She gives out an earnest titter. There She reaches out Her index finger and star by star lights Her little golden lamps and sets the sky afire.

 

Everything motionless, only the flame of that solitary candle dances on the walls and ceiling, not a sound from outside, at least none is caught by our ears, our little world is safe and sound between the impenetrable four walls, our realm unreachable. Not a word reaches the outdoors either, not a scent, ‘tis all kept in absolute secrecy, only between me and her. Her, the one whose easy, deep, breaths and profound heart throbs are the sole echoes in the restful, divina chamber. The dearest hum my ears ever perceived, the hum that brought my breaths and throbs to life. She is, after all, alive, a real being, and she is here, right now, solemnly, solely with me.

 

 

I lay clad in naught but love on my back in the bed, my head on the pillow, left hand hanging over the edge of the mattress holding a 6 inch cigar, and the right one resting on her beautifully formed impudently exposed hipbone. She lay laissez-faire on the bed sideways, her head on my Bacchus’s belly, the long midnight’s black curls mingling with my pubic hair. Her skin is pearl-white, pale as snow all over. Breasts round and firm and so full of life, nipples like two small light brown crowns glorifying them, and on the left nipple one lonely hair, ‘t I named Karva, and the fertile cleft of Venus ad infinitum whispering my name.

 

Feels like a thousand times I had touched and named even the smallest hair and mole, conquered them all, with a gentle brush of my finger drawn my maps and borders and territories on her milk-like skin. I recognized and revered her body by every inch. And never did it cease growing ever dearer to my heart.

 

Her head was warm, the darling most I ever came to know, moving up and down with my in- and exhales. When I take a deep breath and hold it for a while, people do that when processing emotions larger than they are maybe even able to, both good and bad ones; she turns her head and gazes deep into my soul with her emerald green eyes. I do not know whether to laugh or cry or just surrender to the sweet ecstasy of her jade eyes.  Oh, oh no, nothing is wrong. I am in bliss. So very fulfilled that I do not know how to be. She smiles and I see that I am safe, untouchable, wearing the brightest, thickest, proudest! armour, dearest that one may ever wish for.

 

Her Love is my home, my haven, ‘tis my entire existence. My thoughts stray, travel around all worlds and universes and times, then descend back to the room, back to the core of our combined being, the entity of the newly joint halves. With my arterial blood I paint my oaths in the air, I utter, I whisper, I sigh, I roar: Rather than live unworthy life, a thousand times better off would I die before comes the day when we must part again!, for the abomination of a living soul deprived of Love is a thousand times more ailed than a tranquil corpse quiet in grave! For lovers that depart from this life content together, for all eternity remain immortal in Love! Die, ma bijou, I want to die before they ever shatter us in half!  

 

There I think again, I love her so much that sometimes I can not even understand it. There I die, I die again and again, if death is the promised land, the paradise for me and her, for all the days yet to-come.

 

 

C

arefully, steadily, I move the cigar on my lips. Perfection to perfection. Strong, smooth cigar smoke in my mouth, half in my lungs, I do not cough, but exhale pure harmony; she, there, so close to me, her skin on my skin, our souls entwined, hearts beating with the same throbs; I feel it could just burst, explode, for never would it cease before the definitive congé! At last, once more, the night may embrace us, this once, for this one short while in all our lifetimes. Love unconditional, Love once in a thousand lifetimes.

 

 

My last night to live, there surrounded and swallowed by it, I came to understand that there is no such thing as impossibility in life, or at least that is what I, a mere mortal being, thought then. And blame me not! Oh, were there ever honey more lethal, poison more delightful than the mighty vast L! They doubt me, my Love, I answer, I roar up, all the way for the highest heaven to hear: Were there a world where never I loved, there I must be dead still; never awoken to life by foul potions, yet there I must be alive still; not put to slumber by the sole veritable drug!

 

 

There, I still holding the cigar on my lips in rhapsody, she seizes my hand and tenderly moving it across the meadow of my upper torso leads my fingertips on her lips. My fingertips kiss her lips and her lips kiss my fingertips, no movements, only the hands dance their timeless dance. There I feel the smoke in her mouth, half running into her lungs; she exhales the same bliss. I ever wakeful so close to her, my skin on her skin, her soul entwined with mine, our hearts beating with the same throbs; I sense that she, too, could simply just burst, explode. For neither her heart would ever cease loving.

 

She turns her head towards me again, the limpid eyes smile, she sighs. “Schatz”. She presses her warm lips on my fingers, holds Poet’s hand on Muse’s lips, and then frees my hand to rest. Clinging to me like a child clings to one’s mother to ensure the lingering of the maternal goddess, refuge from the cold cruel world; she twines her arms around my lower body and snuggles up against my side, her right cheek tightly pressed on my abdomen. I lay my hand on her back, she purrs, arches her back like a cat, yet careful not to mount her strong red nails too deep into my skin. Oh!, but I fear not. For should I ever bleed, I with secure faith promise you, by the last drop she would halt my blood with her benign scarlet lips.

 

I stretch out my arm to knock the ash off the cigar, I with the ever-restless hand, aiming to reach the lips of an empty spumante bottle, when on half about the sizzling hoary ash encounters its watery tomb, it hisses and dies, we both can but laugh. Laugh in joy, absolute euphoria of our joint lives, there, then, well-nigh forever!, and laugh in sorrow for we know that the day will come, sooner or later, that we too, like autumnal leaves fall lifeless on the ground, like even the clearest crystal of snow melts into water and flows into the sea; when we have to die, be parted again, hop on a bus to Naples and walk off our separate ways, and then step by step wither into oblivion.

 

 

H

er lids close, the curtain sets over the sparkling pair of eyes, and she falls into the most beautiful of dreams. That I pledge, for I have the same dream too, ‘tis where we first met and came to each other countless of times again. She, so very restful and innocent and picturesque in her princess’s sleep, like a porcelain doll keeping safe in the refuge of my arms, one of those vintage ones with glossy picture shapely eyebrows and thick black lashes, blood red round lips and pearl-white china face and hands; I dare not draw a breath never to shatter her.

 

A sip of wine from a pink, for pink is the colour of youthful enthusiasm, earnest faith in forthcoming years!, plastic cup, so warm, gentle and caring. ‘T cradles my devoted being into a cosy, balmy, undisturbed splendour of elevation, my thoughts get wings and rise high above, I am almost resembling feverish, so suddenly utterly indisputably fulfilled, enlightened, born again. I feel drifting away from my corpse, ascending the heavenly stairs of thorough harmony, no curtain call, the act is over and I, Mistress Exultation, sigh profoundly, the grasp of my fingers comes undone, undone, undone…

 

There she seizes my hand, when my eyes are shut and in dreams, -No, merely wholly in love!, and effortlessly steals away the majestic pink wine chalice from my unfeeling fingertips with her steady hand, drip, drop, drip, drop, leaving behind little spots on my torso, then deftly plucking each ruby with her lips, and takes the thick long Cuban into her dulcet custody.

 

And I surrender to slumber, her thick jet-black hair an airy, vivacious jungle on my torso, the bouquet of her perfume, lotions and body scents in my nose, I am inebriated by it!, there she is, truer than I may ever be, her red lips breathing unbroken fervour on my skin, caressing it up into outer spheres, her delicate, treasured body resting on my chest, half in my arms, the dearest weight, force that ever held my breath.

 

 

I dream, I dream your dreams and your dreams are my deepest desires, the sole meaning of my being, and on my life I swear: I would murder and slay and flay to make them all come true, die again and again to keep them heartfelt. I will write for you, about you, until all worlds and times are empty of words, my head high and heart light I will follow you until all paths have grown mossy and waned, I will guard you from all harm and hold your heart safe in my chest. There it throbs for us like an untamed drum, for you and me, forever in love, young, unquenchable, in the dominion of our priceless Love, invisible to the ones outside us, untouchable by time and all the distances in the world. Far-off, safe, there where no-one but you and me may ever exist.

 

 

M

oonlit night, a frail gleam of silver the sole light in the room, nightly shadows gliding on the walls the sole motion. The candle has burned out a long time ago and the harmony of silent whispers and sighs and vows stopped. The air is still dense of the scent of Love, ‘t faintly smells of candle wax, incense sticks, stale red wine, unrelenting dalliance of a pair of love-aroused younglings and post-love making tobacco smoke. The earth is even quieter than before, dead still. The world is asleep awaiting for the morn light to come.

 

Dulcet, endless night! Black! Caressing the world, singing Her tacit lullabies, the old Luna alone is awake, embracing the people far below, like a mother heartily observing the soundly slumbering lands. ‘Tis late, though not yet quite early enough, She yawns, blinks the grey sand off Her eye lashes and then reaches out Her index finger to put Her little golden lamps out to sleep. One more glance at the immobile beauteous world and then Luna flees, She moves away and disappears behind the clouds. The world is left pitch black, ‘tis an endless ocean of dark and shadows, not even a sound, not a light until the glow of the first morning ray.

 

 

‘Tis not quite yet the hour of dawn, alas!, there is a fervent fierce gleam on the sky,  born somewhere down the hill; red and yellow and golden and momentarily even greenish blaze rising high up, reflecting on the sky, marching it up. Following the glow down to the town centre, through the labyrinth of narrow one-way streets and dead ends and alleys of cobblestone, passing all the houses, statues and fountains, crossing the piazza and coming to the gates of Zia Carmela; one may perceive that the first glow of morn is but a ferocious eruption of fire bursting out from a small hotel room on the first floor.

 

February, winter season, even in Campania ‘tis fairly chilly, the on-lookers shiver, yet dare not draw warmth into themselves from the flaming spectacle fed by anhydrous air and belialish gales from the mountains. By the time the fire brigades arrive from the next town and get down to putting out the fire, at least two dozen of god-fearing villagers have gathered around the hotel, elderly, women, men and even children; all cleaving to their rosaries, they mutter their prayers, Dio! Non lasciare nessuno stare in dentro! Dio! Non lasciare nessuno stare in dentro!, but, alas, there is, by god, someone left inside.

 

 

S

hould I then have woken up, my beloved sleeping on my chest, half in my arms, she would have been no more fair, nor her skin soft, smooth, white as snow. There would have been no Karva left; her breasts would not have been round and firm and full of life, or her hipbone as boldly exposed, or the cleft of Venus as vigorous as before.

 

No picturesque porcelain face, no blood red lipstick, no crystal tears frozen on her cheeks. Her hair would have not been the familiar airy vivacious jungle on my torso, nor would I have caught the bouquet of her perfume, lotions and body scent. And my endeared emerald eyes would have not turned to me again.

 

Should I then have woken up, I would have seen only a black scorched body, faintly reminiscent of my beloved’s, lying on my equally parched skin, smelt no more than smoke and coal and devastating wrath of fading fire.

 

 

L

ater the papers would write about us, say that two people were swallowed, smouldered by a vast fire that night. Both identified, but the identities kept secret; that the remains of the bodies would be conveyed back to their home countries and families. Both of them foreigners, visitors, yet from different countries. The pair of travellers had been living in the hotel for a few days before the fire occurred.

 

The relation of the dead is remotely dubious. ‘T is, by fair reasons, concluded that some indecency and fornication were plied by the victims. The incident is under investigation as an accident, no outer factors are believed to be involved.

 

Another traveller living in the room next door suffered no more than some mild asphyxiation. The building underwent severe damage only in the badly burnt room 54. Excluding the neighbouring visitor, no one else was in danger.

 

They would, also, write that the fire was caused by a smouldering cigar that set the sheets afire, and then distended on the furniture and then the building. After thorough investigation ‘tis discerned that although ‘twas the Northern corpse that had smoked the cigar, yet for some indistinct reason the Alpine corpse was the last one to hold it before it set the room in flames. Alcohol was involved moderately. Both victims died of carbon monoxide poisoning in their sleep.

 

 

T

hat is what they wrote on my obituary: Wanderlust claimed its child. A content, fearless child. Everyone’s beloved child, so very too early taken away from life. They wept and wore black for a while, then went on. ‘Twas an appalling, terrible accident, a horrible end to a young life, they still speak, cherishing their memories. I observe them. In time all longing and sorrow will fade and before long the day comes that my existence is merely a picture from the past, black and white, too distant to be an every day borne weight of woe in their hearts.

 

But I do not agree. My own obituary I shall write myself, after infinity and another and another! What they see, recall and mourn; that wasn’t my life, merely a modest prologue. A perverted foreword for a thousand years of Love to-come.

 

But the child is at long last content. I look back to the past and I smile. In my mind write my own obituary in the name of Love. For now I know ‘t was not an accident, as shocking as ‘twas; merely my final wish being fulfilled by the ivory white steady hand. Her hand sound and firm set the sheets ablaze; with steely nerves she keeps the hand secure and body still. She does not move an inch not to wake me, but rests on my body numb, numbing more all the time, lets the smoke run into her lungs and slowly in pain suffocate her. I sleep, I dream, I dream of her while she dies watching me drawing my last breaths. Covered in beads and little rivulets of sweat, as just made-love, her body gives up and limpens. Dead still, not an inch; we die as we were still at the summit of our life.

 

 

I

 wake up into a spring like afternoon lying on my back clad in naught on a meadow of verdant grass full of wild pansies and little daisies, the arching deep blue sky above me bears not a wisp of cloud. I can feel it, smell it, taste it and even hear it. All the fresh air reviving me, the unbounded space spreading all around me, the vast Alpine fields so deep green and the sky solemnly blue.

 

And there she is, my beloved, recovering from sleep, opening her eyes on my chest, half in my arms. My picturesque porcelain doll, there I see her again as if I had never even set my eyes off her. She is as beautiful as ever, even fairer, her skin smooth, white as snow. Karva dancing in the wind, her hipbone boldly exposed, and the Venus mound roused. Her jet black hair is the familiar vivacious jungle on my torso; I can catch the scent of the bouquet of her perfume, lotions and body scents blended with a whiff of infinity.

 

And there the emerald eyes turn to me once again, reveal my true desires and dreams, the green eyes that gave birth to my fantasies and yearnings. The green eyes smile and drown me in their affection. I write a thousand poems, a thousand rhapsodies. I pursue my mistress, Love, Love for a thousand years and an eternity.

Vihreät.

Last but not least, a treat for my kins(wo)men:

 

The final poem, "Green", as written prior to my project "The Final Era" on Midsummer’s eve 2007, in Finnish.

 

 

Hänen silmänsä

olivat vihreät

Niissä näin peilikuvani

ihmisen,

joka kerran olin

Hänen silmissään

oli maailma jota en vihannut

Jotain,

jota kerran rakastin

 

Hänen silmänsä

olivat vihreät

Niissä näin maailman,

sieluni,

joka joskus oli

Hänen silmissään

oli minun koko elämäni

Unelma,

jota yhä rakastan

Autumnal Frantic, part VII

Tick tock

Days pass

Months

Years

 

Yet I linger

in my crestfallen plight,

How can I,

solitary without you!

 

The poltroon

And the life

Make-believe,

Alas!

Not so

 

Never would I

Never dared I

Such a daydream

Like a nightmare

 

So frantic in love

I, at long last find:

I fear to die

Autumnal Frantic, part VI

Autumn

Once more another autumn

without you

Yet I go on

through refusal

and with a sore heart

 

Alas!,

‘tisn’t my heart,

‘tis yours

 

Pacing my feet

wading in leaves

 

May the rain soak me

I will not get cold

For only then may

Winter overcome me

when you exist not

 

But never shall

you cease,

in the palace of my heart,

There you live still

Autumnal Frantic, part V

As cold and gloomy

and inevitable

as September

Is my rugged corpse

callous roaming through

timeless times

without You

 

As dedicated

as is the autumn

to draw closer

and change into winter

Am I to become

a part of You

to be swallowed

by You

 

For this night

and the night to-come

be possessed by You

-To become You!

Your heart and soul

 

Rageous, fierce storm

Ever and ever

militarised zone

Keeping you from harm

Avenging your death

 

Here I bring myself

closer to You,

Hide my secret

in You

-Obedience,

Truest O’ mine

 

-The ever-smouldering Love

Your Love!

and my heart

Given to birth by Yours

 

September 2008.