whooosh

listening i cannot hear
deaf from the sound
of blood and water
sprayed into wind

looking i cannot see
blinded by hurt and sun
but now these Jacaranda
trees, stirring memory

wake me to feel
the cold evening
and the endless sky
here i am

born into waste land
and so i understood:
to stay.
i say: no.

i ask the wind:
take me.
i asked you.
now i ask myself.

beauty can be present

come to a desert in consciousness with beauty's
barbarian detachment
and see it as it is,
when all is relative
i walk away means something
only in relation to another thing
or person

Sintra

dis-illusion-ment

   disillusionment

   is not what i meant,

   dying on the vine

   is not the best place

   One can so easily

   destroy the charm

   of life, and free

   of delusion

   there is not much

   left to do but to sit

   and wait for better

   times or to go out

   and see what is

   there, around, now.

   i feel detached from

   even me as i ask:

   who sits here,

   is he present?

   he watches himself,

   lost in questions.

   i think i better

   give him a push,

   another name,

   drive him as mad

   as everybody is:

   insane, exquisitely

   in pain. when

   we read we laugh.

   so i write

   to read

   to laugh

   to forget

   what i wrote

   

bearded enthusiasts

one found refuge

it must be a sectarian way of life, maybe students, bearded,dark eyes shining and pupils dilated, a bit drunk, in hormonal enthusiasm, discussing ardently hypersexuality, the girls and women between boredom and fascination, one slim young man silently texting in his mobile, a broad and more obese one wordlessly blowing smoke rings and changing from supporting his chin to crossing his arms in front. he looks like the one who would be predestined to kill the other ones quietly outside, the slim one may be texting this to him in the chain of command.
but no fear, all this is democracy,
you can say what you want and nobody cares.

ps:
but one of them really looks a bit
like a young Trotsky: it's legal.