Was it the rain

A long downpour has gone by

from a hundred and six years delay

Leaving naught behind

Nothing but ash and bones

Buzzing in his ears

/

As the windows draws open,

and the dripping meets the wood

a pure scent is on go —

A feeling nothing can’t be undone

Still no time would heal the wounds

/

On a thin garment on road

Unsure strides

Pretending heart and soul

Was is the rain…

to wipe it whole

and leave no marks

to clean his heart

and cleanse his soul

/

After the rainfall

all that’s left

is silence whole

and it kills from inside

whispering his death

in the cushion

in his bed

all that’s left…

/

Sun reflects in the water driblets

the memories seems to slowly fade

because…

The irony presences the laughter

no water could really wash his face

/

The billionth voice heard

from such a long time

ages of unborn…

“Feed me with your uncaring

Spread me through your plague”

/

Gravity float away

as if the real simply peel

his subtle den

Would’ve match his inner pain

Imploding the huge asylum of shades

/

When he set his chains

the shackles had his name

melted down

Through the dirt of his mind

Blazed red his fate

/

Was it the rain

That washed away

His whole face

/

Has the rest bounded, he is only flesh

 

-key

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half hollow

Smiles

gestures

blabber shit

meaningless pit –

most of times

I’m sane,

misplaced,

anywhere around

 

I laugh

I’m sad

I’m happy

I’m fucking satisfied

but instead

I’m a surface of null

a copycat

of the shit around.

 

I don’t –

I’ve never –

care for meaningless

if I’m or not

it just doesn’t matter

at least no more

than things around

seem to.

 

Order

neat

obligations

preoccupations.

O, if I could get rid of it.

 

Sometimes

I show that me,

half-hollow,

like a black hole

I’m something

yet nothing

But then –

when the sight trespass –

what am I

to someone,

but a fucking black hole.

I’m never attached

 

Then

it’s smiles

gestures

pile of shit

everything you please

that’s how I get by.

five and mad

I stare at the clock –

it is fucking 5 AM.

Hitting itself,

noisy.

 

And I’ve got nowhere to go

I hear no thoughts

and bear no light

but it’s still so dark outside.

 

Come to think

it is not I who stares at the clock

it is the clock watching me

and it never judges

although everything it sees

every second be.

 

It channels me –

wakes me up,

puts me to sleep.

Although it’s never so simple.

 

-key

Death of death

Death is certainty

and sureness’ in always in doubt.

 

Worse than death

Is the death of your certainty.

 

When you feel perished

But you’re not;

And there’s no heartbeat

Though you can easily breathe.

 

In a pit somewhere

The limbo hole

Can’t look down

Can’t look up

If you’re flying or falling

No one possibly knows

There’s no foward

and there’s no back.

 

You’re part of an eternal loop –

A loop of yourself.

 

And you’re lost

In the vines of your mind.

 

I hope someday you can at ease rest.

 

In the endless pit

we feel the lack

No sorrow –

And certainly no faith.

The songless pit

is the death of death.

Strings and Plugs

I never found my glasses

I spit my soul here and there

Round around as if in a forest in hell.

 

But I’ve tried.

Hell, I’ve tried.

 

I want to feel the cold

And heat myself up with coffee

All the day long;

But I only feel the hotness

Though I heat myself still.

 

I have no rear mirror to look back

So I have to turn back my head

And a gut feeling warns me

Never to walk while looking back.

 

I see now the strings I tender

I never meant to have them perished

And never wanted it to leave me.

Sometimes it’s not my decision to make;

Or so I guess.

 

So if a string is weak

and ready to die,

Let the plug go as well.

It’s useless without it.

 

I’ll pull it off

Rather than trying to fix it afresh.

And let it all be.

 

As renew is a fake word –

It conceals the past time.

And pretends it is a whole new road.

 

Somehow, and that’s optimistic,

I’ll find another new string and plug;

And back at start line.

 

Key

Hanging Heads

Sane to say the world never grew

and from a plain past any could brew

lest it gets me deeper in my brain

claiming nothing and none makes full sense

altruist born souls gone wildly insane

for they were long born somewhere that wasn’t theirs

like a bright star in a full vast sky in grey.

 /

O, the Planet’s ancientness

The wiser, the huger the defect

and we are often millions blemishes

wandering and grasping through years in packs.

 /

I sought once to live in a smaller world

whence I’d harvest smiles of kindness

And if a kin of mine would come down

I would simply stretch my hand edge ways

and pin again his dreams in a while

for our proximity would not be strain only to our souls

it would share the responsibility with our bodies’ own.

 /

But I blabber;

By reason of I hear a lonely stream

it longs to say to me

that in a short future there is nowhere for my dreams to be.

 /

And a passerby carriage ran by me;

From its wooden chamber I heard what seemed the stream

led by the noisiest horses

which never slowed its speed.

/

The world now tiny and frown;

Such as a graceful hand it seized me

Its voice soft but solemn

thus, it dropped a tear in their honor:

“Poetry?” it said to me,

“To frame beautifully your words is such a waste

of fine grammar and raw creativity!”

It never hit me as it should

so here I kept

so here I stood.

 /

The hanging heads —

apart of brains

Wise they are

when they complain.

 /

The Planet now a peer;

“To the wise there’s no boundaries!”

they often cheer

but limits are to every seer

otherwise there wouldn’t be none

And the hanging heads would have never been born

into the fast circle cast within.

 /

A dead leaf falls by my hand

as someone congratulates a dumb every now and then

We shall cry no tears for faulty words! –

true it is they can’t always be erased

but you can always strive to write in the line below

and turn in brilliance what first was nothing but wrong.

-key

Ascension

In those strolls you see the larger trees, those tall ones and they are up high. They don’t touch the sky but at least they’re higher than you. You start to think whether you should become a tree, but then you realize you’d be a small bush after all. But this made you forget everything. Shit. I wonder what should I be thinking. There’s always something to think about, your mind always needs to defecate. One way or another.

Some of the days in the summer tires my lungs off. And you kick the sheets of you in a rage. “If I was a skeleton I would never sweat”, you think. Shit. Lost myself in random thoughts again. I walked. That’s when I saw those trees. I don’t want to be a tree after all. No.

 

Have you ever wondered how the words were invented? Do you even imagine how complex it is to weave grammars altogether and butch it over and over till it becomes something. If it becomes something. Never knew. I wish I knew so I could fill up some words in my thought. Maybe I could teach this. And the kids would be “wow! really?”. But they wouldn’t really care, and the one who did would quickly forget. I wonder what kids want to learn these days. Then I could teach them all, if I knew of course. Shit. Lost myself again. Hell. How, how can I keep doing this. There is this woman looking at me and probably waiting for me to say something. She doesn’t look impatient, though. I wonder why. I’d be. I bet that’s because she’s pretty enough to never become impatient. Guess I’ll try.

 

“You have a different look in your eyes”, she says. I tell her I didn’t understood. She repeats. I tell her that I listened, I just didn’t understood. She laughs. Laughs at me. This grabbed my attention. I always notice the smallest, smallest actions. I like the details, they’re not for everyone. I won… Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

The woman says that sometimes my eyes they seem empty, but full of doubts on the whole. I guess that if you’re full of doubts then you’re half empty. She says maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. What did she meant? There’s nothing more indescribable as Maybe. That’s why she used so much. I might have to start too.

 

In the cold days the engines of my old car sometimes dies. Dead as a shot bird in the ground. Shit. She stares at me with those eyes of her. Her eyes are different than mine, I guess. They lock me. Hell, they do. Eyes that seek eyes and hunt them, hunt them so fiercely. A pair of lions seeking the pack’s food. Wonder if her eyes feed of other eyes. Shit. She calls me names. Honey, darling, dear, love, honey, honey, honey. I wish I could call her names too, I just don’t know how to do it. I tried. She laughed again. That laugh. I was starting to laugh. She said some other names too but I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I don’t remember. They say if you repeat many times a lie that you start to believe it. Because I remembered and I just didn’t wanted to. So I don’t remember anymore.

 

“You and I. We’re different. Different from each other. That’s why we’re here”, she says. I closed my eyes. She’s right. Damn. She’s fucking right. I never liked people similar to me. I hate them. People always seek perfection but their concept of perfection is their own self. Disgusting. I never understood. Sometimes it is better never to understand. Shit.
She landed her hand softly into my knee and with the pinky slightly she stroked it. She asked about the surgery. Have I ever told her about this? Doesn’t make much difference know. I tell “It’s alright now”. Funny. She says I’m funny. I was never a funny man, not that I knew. It’s hard to get me smiling, I think I look stupid. I guess being funny is being a little stupid. Shit. Why someone stroke the lover’s knee? I didn’t understood her.

 

She lit a cigarette. She smoked pretty. Smoker women, if they do it right I mean, have a sensuality that drives me crazy. Crazy. She did right. Every fucking gulp of nicotine. Every one of them. Fuck cancer, I like to see her smoking. That’s something she said to me once. Fuck cancer. I’m not able to change this. I don’t really care. I will probably die before her anyways. She told me this as well. Fuck you, why’d you worry. You will die before me. She never took his eyes of me. Normally I’d be feeling weird. But I really felt nothing. Nothing. She tells something. Sorry. She muttered something. So I couldn’t listen to her and she could listen to my voice saying “I’m sorry?”. Woman like to hear this. Hardly. Or at least this kind of woman. She knew I didn’t meant what she wanted to meant, but in the bright side (for her) at least I said it. Well, I wouldn’t say it otherwise anyways. Then she smiled and said “Ascension“. Hell, what’s with this woman. I started to think why she’d ever wanted something with me. Guess she was slowly lurking me into a trap. Maybe. I wondered how many times I had been seeing her now. I’m lost in my own time. Shit.

 

So she repeated. Ascension. “Ascension what?”, I stupidly ask. “It’s where we’re headed, honey”. Those fucking names all over again. I liked those names. Come to think, she never used my name. Only once, I mean. The day I met her. It was a sunny day. I told my name and she said, “sorry?”. I repeated. And she repeated right after me, almost in unison. She tricked me the day I met her, come to think. But she tricked me like she never did. Whatever. She started to explain we look like ducks. Ducks. We walk with our two legs aimlessly, and our hands were tied in our backs, as the ducks wings. I never understood her. That’s why I liked her. She wasn’t good with the metaphor, though. Never was. “We should walk with our arms free and that, my dear, is the first step for what we’re headed”. You make no sense, I say. I always told her that.

 

In the autumn sometimes I get drunk while grabbing old leaves. My pa says it’s a weird hobby. It’s not a fucking hobby. I don’t do it because I want to, I just do it. Really. Once me and my lover done it on the garden. Just once. Fuck. I can’t get her out of my head now. Shit. Shit. Shit.

All her crazy talks. I listened and I didn’t even knew why. I’ve been trained not to listen. I’m a man after all. I guess that doesn’t work in a hundred percent rate. Not even a shot in the head works in a hundred percent rate of death, why would this. I should be more smart. She longed and talked minutes about this ascension of her. I told her to leave the ducks alone, to use another metaphor, but she couldn’t. She kept talking about ducks. I kept against the idea. Told her she was crazy. I always tell her this and she always accept it. Not this time though. It went for several minutes. “Look,” I said, “I really have to be going in an hour”. And I really had to. I hated work. She hated work as well. I think that’s the most similarity we had. She worked in an office or something. I forgot where I work. I forgot. I forgot. I forgot. So we forgot the words (and the works) and went to love. Not real love. I guess I didn’t really loved her, as she didn’t too. I’m not sure. I guess that’s the perfect relationship for me. I think.
Shit.

 

She never gave me birthday gifts. Never. The gifts were given at random days. And it was never something I asked, or commented I wanted to buy. I was starting to think that she was the one trained not to listen. But a week ago I came home and there was a puff duck on the top of my freezer. This duck had his wings teared apart. Beneath his was a note saying If we don’t free our wings, we end up loosing them.

I guess that was her so called Ascension. Shit. But only maybe.

– Key.