Мне нравится, что вы больны не мной,
Мне нравится, что я больна не вами,
Что никогда тяжелый шар земной
Не уплывет под нашими ногами.
Мне нравится, что можно быть смешной -
Распущенной - и не играть словами,
И не краснеть удушливой волной,
Слегка соприкоснувшись рукавами.

Мне нравится еще, что вы при мне
Спокойно обнимаете другую,
Не прочите мне в адовом огне
Гореть за то, что я не вас целую.
Что имя нежное мое, мой нежный, не
Упоминаете ни днем, ни ночью - всуе...
Что никогда в церковной тишине
Не пропоют над нами: аллилуйя!

Спасибо вам и сердцем и рукой
За то, что вы меня - не зная сами! -
Так любите: за мой ночной покой,
За редкость встреч закатными часами,
За наши не-гулянья под луной,
За солнце, не у нас над головами,-
За то, что вы больны - увы! - не мной,
За то, что я больна - увы! - не вами!

~Марина Цветаева, 1915


I apologize that this will not be understood by most of you; the translations out there pale in comparison.

I cannot stop thinking of you

Adriano Celentano - La Terza Guerra Mondialea

{Thanks, V.}

where is my parrot and the cloudless sky
the ever shining light of night
and ever present pleasure

I shall wear a fedora
take on a passive, casual, melancholic demeanor
and smoke from a long thin pipe
emitting narrow rings of smoke from my ever-glossed lips
wearing charcoal-dark sunglasses covering the greater part of my face
as my red hair will come in stark contract with the image
making it bold, lively

―We knew perfectly well of course that although it was bound to come to the light he would find considerable difficulty in endeavouring to try to induce himself to try to endeavour to ascertain the spiritual plenipotentiary and so we knew of course perfectly well―

James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist...

Oh, Joyce, you manoeuvre language as no other!
Yet, still, the somber disenchanted mood does not escape me...

ah.

uninspired predictability

I would like to be proven wrong, just once. Please?

At the distinct moment when another’s belief that they have gotten to understand your motivations and comprehend your course of action is evident, is the time to abandon this game and swiftly vary strategy.

Charles Aznavour - Les Deux Guitares

Take me into your loneliness and your thoughts Your heartbeat is a sound I have longed to hear… reassure me and hold me calm within your arms. Desires and stories release me, allow me To enter this deeper and soak it all in Eyelids slowly shut, a foundationless whim
forget my request, I am destined for solitude.

Thoughts and resonating notes I concoct while I shower

Subject me to you
And my fears will escape me
Long as I do
For your skin sweeping mine
Water drops along my body
Sober my memory

May I misread your nuances?

"After a bit of time passes it can be difficult to remember how, why, when you liked someone, and nice to revisit it from a safe distance... The much older man whose skill in manipulating my body was as funny as it was frightening. The first time with someone I still think of fondly, someone I fell quickly and hard for, and the thousand or so times we were together after that, and the last time with him too.

The few whom I could not get enough of. The way they smelled, felt, tasted... The times sex felt as much a spiritual calling as a biological need. And how those moments kept me going for weeks afterward, like pearls dotting the cord of our moribund relationship.

These are nice, these little sketches of people I have enjoyed. It passes the time on trains and in taxis."

Forget my name; I never existed.
~
Tonight, the night glows.

You tell me stories of the past and read me tales of enchantment, Greek mythology – immortal love.
I am your goddess and you are my days.

Excerpts from Whitman’s Leaves of Grass

I cannot define my satisfaction, yet it is so,
I cannot define my life, yet it is so.





THIS COMPOST.

I.

SOMETHING
startles me where I thought I was safest;
I withdraw from the still woods I loved;
I will not go now on the pastures to walk;
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea;



SONGS OF PARTING
...
Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—is best,


And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.

Sleep is not a method of release I do not miss a single thought nor am I able to forget my reality a lack of diagnosis is significantly more terrifying than a death sentence there is one and she is too young and her reality is illogical and harsh at the moment there is another and she is taking another’s love and caring for granted there is me I crave heights and strangers

That which I know
That which I know
The people I love
I love them dearly
And the winding path leads the wonderer to a solid oak doorway opening into a vast desert
{dessert of choice: Tiramisu}

sickness
delirium
causation?
fever
fatigue
If only sleep produced the desired effect…

Your darkest desires are all in your head.