[part 2 continues]
laying down the dough,
slice by slice,
in perfect geometrical dimensions,
revealing the order amidst this chaos.
i’ve made my peace, ease, peas.
my waking life, travels through osmosis,
and returns to the dream world.
as we were coming up, into a galaxy of metro stations,
trains passing by, the adverts look like bursts of stars,
traveling at this speed seemed like the way of the future.
we all have compulsive habits.
in the midst of spinning a web for the good life,
i lost touch with the mundane.
did you hear about that girl, who was so concerned with,
that she died,
in a moment of exaltation.
who is she?
why, of course, she has a name!
margarita she goes by.
in fact, the devil lies in the details.
catching oneself in interwoven plots,
albeit always slightly detached from direct involvement.
there’s always an eject button,
catapulting out of heavy compression,
and onwards to the next storyline.
but we caught glimpses of all these wondrous worlds.
variety is the spice of life, they say.
when the splash of extraordinary stops,
squirt the ordinary cum,
our central nervous system is unable to handle the shock.
i miss our verbose sittings,
under starry nights,
the clinks and clunks,
human forms shaped strangely around us.
the musical notes hitting a right key,
unlocking all of our frustrations,
amusements, ponderings about our banal existence.
when we goats purr,
the gloating cats listen.
in the queue, your lunchbox approached mine.
the ladders to passing clouds,
serbian mothers and twirling in heels.
football match paved the way to an explosive night by the canals,
where we found ourselves on a roof,
watching the sunrise,
before we carved infinity.
a dash of surrealism along with your coffee,
isn’t it nice?
don’t you remember how we cheered at the free-spirited,
and jeered at the locked up cage of repressed castrates.
pluck out the thorns of imbued memory,
smoothing the cover,
only to reveal a pandora box of profane interactions.
somehow the discolored version,
the tainted destruction,
cries for attention.
to be remembered.
but you sensed the poetry.
on our walk along the seine,
gaze upon the notre dame.
watered down cocktails of our augmented night,
a little detour to 2 stops away from chatelet.
and next, outside of chancery lane tube station we stand,
everything feels lucid and real.
the job you’ve given me, the confidence.
my lack of gratitude only compelled you to chase with a fervent desire.
i am honest.
i am thankful.
skip those months, we arrive at a post-parov-stelar gig,
by the fountains surrounded by lions,
on a bench that initiated the year.
did we begin our journey then?
stranger, look within yourself.
i will always be here for you.
repel the baser instincts, they advised.
but how could i?
they are such a relish, radish.
let the pungent army attack your inner senses.
maybe then we will be awaken.
to this reality that we often deny.
steamy forbidden fruits.
timing is everything.
our intentions dug our graves,
for us to jump in without second thoughts.
and for what?
in search of the sense of being,
essence of living,
alive, lit up,
so the devils could pick up our bones trailing behind.
wait, refusal. resisting the last bite.
X desires to kiss. to make contact.
in its infinite search for the perfect home,
lies its greatest paradox.
never to find anything appropriate,
as curiosity likes to delve into yet another sphere,
when one has been sought out.
or so it convinces itself.
everything is already an anti-thesis from the beginning.
the longing to return to 0,
but 1, 1, 1, just cannot stop poking around,
to see what’s behind, in front, above, beneath,
exactly where it stands.
why should we stop experimenting?
those who have an excessive love of life,
lives Her intense days and nights,
crash and burn before the mortals flee to oblivion.
margarita, save the day.