THE FORBIDDEN PURPLE

I)
The dusty manuscript of my life is full of recurring metaphors,
Borrowed and abused words,
As if it’s the anthology of the same poem (?) in different languages
Lost in a absurd forest of signs, yet lured
(A useless creeper’s boastful journey to the hill-top).

If some day I find the ink to paint the eloquent shaped “You”
I’ll name a garbage dump after me.
In the ecstasy of finding the true color of an autumn
In the amusement of finding music in the husky voice of aged winds
I won’t mind, if no theory of aesthetics supports this blemish of mine
And starts Bargaining over my head, then …!

II)
My heart is the antithesis of an epic, fabricated by the fancy of a fiction-eater
The ethereally innocent words, insanely disloyal thoughts
Contrasted like the teeth and skin of a colored man
But I can spill no more red to make your imaginary characters look prettier
As no sea can nourish itself by its own blue and tides…

My favorite stepmother —– You are the thirst of saltwater,
A lust ruthlessly alive to kiss the forbidden lips that imitate your smile
Like that mythical king who wanted to be fertile forever
In your brush stroked Garden of Eden, it’s the fate of paler snowflakes,
Stupid Creature…Yes! I burn….

III)
I’ve never been a poet to claim your tangy ownership
Smell your ink made organs to soak my tobacco-dried lungs
But as a part of a profane imagination, with your skin
I make my beloved dancing shoe,
I dance and I dance till the last drop of water inside
Hoping my sweat will become tomorrow’s rain,

A rain which may wash away the guilt full legend of a poet
Who committed suicide to become your merchant of flavors for eternity.

IV)
Open the door; open the door, I’m tired of your cruel measures
Of my zero gravity, the arrogant narcissism of magical shapes, signs.
My words are too light to hide in the subterranean dusk of your hair,
Recklessly nomadic to rest upon the ivory whites of your bosom.

The bruises of longing have became purple already, yet there is no trace of that ink.
Now, I only laugh at my seedless obsession,
And go mad about this truth.

Poetry – My bohemian whore,
-Just -don’t –hate- me.

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