Happy f...cking birthday

It's been months
And I'm still not over the rejection
the frustration, the pain
the anger
- pure rage, I would say -
that all I felt and said to you
was in vain.


But being far away,
not hearing from you,
not knowing what you're doing
or with whom
was definitely helping.


Now, my f...cking birthday
had to come
and make you send me f...cking wishes
for it to be f...cking happy,
just like that,
out of the f...cking blue.


Really?


Now I feel like I need
several f...cking years
to get a grip on myself
to dry these tears
and start anew.

And the irony is this:
Even though you don't want me
and even though I'm f...cked enough
I'd still rather be there
feeling lousy
f...cking you.

Mirror, mirror

Mirror, mirror
on the wall

tell me, please,
will I keep standing
if my certainties crumble
and my principles sprawl?
Will I endure,
maintain my poise,
or will I have to kneel
and crawl?

Mirror, mirror
on the wall

when all my desires
conspire to seize me
and allure me
with their call,
will I then be able
to look you in the eye
even if I feel
like risking a fall?

Mirror, mirror
on the wall

Will I remain serene
and civilized
as I blow it all,
will I be appeased
or come to break you
into petty little pieces
the day my reflection
releases me

from this chain
and heavy ball?

The hardest challenge

There are many things
that limit our actions,
you said,
but many more
that challenge us.

And I drew a new strength
from your confidence.

My love for you
 grows in inverse proportion
to the time we have left,
you wrote.

And I drew a strange comfort
from that blow.

Miracles happen,
you used to repeat.
Tsunamis too.

But waiting
simply waiting
wouldn't do.

So, the courage you lacked
to change your life
I took
and changed mine
for you                              (...?)


But perhaps the hardest challenge
the most impressive strength
lies in resisting
remaining
like you do:

unchanged
unfulfilled
wanting
but unwilling
to make your dreams
come true.

No

No, I am not going
to write a poem
this time.

There's no point
anymore
no reason or rhyme
to lay out my pangs
in a neat
verbal line

to polish your ego
make it shine

to appease the desire
to make you mine.

On the beach

Engrossed and thrilled
we were both drawing
beautiful shapes
on the smooth, wet sand
with our witness
the sea.

The textures and lines
we created together
felt like the very bonds
that drew us closer
as we became at once
united and free.


But all of a sudden
you stopped,
stared at the pattern
and declared:
«This is pointless!
The tide is coming in!
What a mistake we have made!»

Then, with rational madness,
you erased our fancy world of fantasy
and walked away towards the shade.

To the redmoongrabber

How gratifying,
my dear,
that you should enjoy wandering
through this forest of woe
that you feel compelled to decipher
these intricate lines
that I sew
once in a while.
How lustfully exciting
to feel the caressing presence
of your eyes all over my body

(my skin is made of words,
you know...)


But on these strolls
of your wise, ethereal fingers
on the surface and the depths
of my powerless being
perhaps you don't see
as much as you think you do.
Control is just as vital to me
as it is to you.
However,
the utmost pleasure
comes from yielding,
not from holding sway.


And grabbing,
by the way,
makes a lot of sense.
It all depends
on the pair of hands.

Twenty per cent

The scenery
–however charming–
had a touch of melancholy triteness to it,
moon above and sea below.
It matched the inevitable presence
of clichés in our words,
I know.


« I'd say 80% of my relationship is fine.
That’s why I hold on, you see? »
You just smiled,
seemed to understand.
But teased me right away
about your trip the next day:
you’d be flying a plane to Brazil…
wouldn’t I like to go?


Tempting.
But let’s take a train
somewhere else instead,
so I stay down on earth
and you're not in control –
I should have said.


And as we kissed politely
for a second
there was an accidental touch
of breast and chest.
Then we parted,
of course.
And I was left to fantasize
about the rest.

In the back seat

Someone's driving
I don't know who.
I only hope
This trip will take me
somewhere new.

There is a mirror
where I could see
Their bright glance
And find out
Who they might be.
But outside
the racing landscape
is mesmerizing,
so I avert
the truthful eye
that criticizes me.

And here I go
Unawares
of my own fate...

As long as someone cares
to be my keeper,
Being a hostage
cannot bury me
any deeper.

Not lovers yet

We are not lovers yet

But I feel as if
we've already
gone that far.
We have only just met
And somehow
you've stolen
the key to my heart.


We are not lovers yet

But act accordingly.
Our minds are truly set
however deceptive
this whole thing
can be.

Two adolescents

looking only ahead
anxious for pleasure
of body
not mind
careless of what
they leave behind.

We are not lovers yet

But we might as well
be totally blind.

The beast

I normally drive myself,
you say.

But this time
It seems
I've got on a train
with a mind of its own.
And in the meantime
your words
of longing and lust
are hurting like spears
piercing through places
I did not remember.

I am curious,
you say.
Anxious to see
where we will be taken,
eager to know
what pleasures await.

Well, the train,
as you call it,
seems more like a beast
to me,
given our state.

It is wild and mad
mighty and huge
and it's speeding straight
into an abyss
that we hope
might be
a refuge.

This beast
at once
ancient and young
has the force of a fate.
And we are both
riding on top
holding the bait.

Lonely lost sad

I feel so lonely here


without you


in my life


I feel so lost here


without your eyes


as my light


I feel so sad here


without your words


as my guide






Do you think we could lose control?

End of story

...

it should never have begun
this story.
We should not have dived in
Head first
into this dark well of emotions
I am sorry.


Yes,
I'll take your hand
and let you guide me to the light
even though up there
at the top
we'll be blinded
by sight.

Walking chaos

You walked in
Like the rest of them
And I barely noticed.

But then you spoke
- was it a clever question
or a sharp remark? -
and your voice
(I did not know then
what I know now)

struck me

somehow.

There was also something
in your shy
but penetrating look
a radiance
a spark
an unexpected tie
that caught me
on your hook

as you are doing now.

The end

What if I told you
I am finally ready
After all this time?

What if I told you
I'm yours, take me, be mine?

What if I confronted you now
With all you have said
And demanded "live up to your words!
Or else I'll be dead?"

"Happy new year" -
You smile and say.
- "May you enter well in 2017".

So, that's it. I'm done.
No good to hope or pray.
The next river I see
I shall throw myself in.

Happy news from Jesus

A young man approached me
in the street
I have happy news from Jesus!
He said.
And I told him
I was into Buddhism
just so he'd leave
me alone.

But later
I regretted
not having discussed
the matter
with him,
not having asked
looking straight
to his face:
Is religion not merely a solace
a comfort
a refuge
where we hide
from disgrace?

Are we any happier
for having had prophets around?
Is our life on Earth
with its wars
and hatred and waste
any better?
Are hungry children
any fatter?




A prophet is a kind of poet
to me
so I believe in the former
as much as I believe in the latter.

Writing

a form
of dreaming awake
in which we accomplish
all our desires
and more

whilst leaving
a trail of experiences,
thoughts
and feelings
to which we can come back
at any time
for the sheer pleasure
of remembering
and reliving
our life.

Read me

I may be an open book
But a book needs a reader
to make sense from it.

I may pour out words
in the hope that my longing
to be understood
will no longer make sense.

I may voice them out loud
to make sure they are heard
should the reader
be looking away.

I may not have much to say
other than the turmoil
ramping inside
tearing me wildly
with ease.

I may be a crude,
naked, nasty sight
You'd rather
not contemplate

but bear with me
read me
listen
look
please

Or I might disintegrate.

Tallinn

I confess that I did not think a lot
maybe not even a little
maybe almost nothing
or nothing at all
about you
about us
when I was away
immersed in that other world
so charming and new.

However,
now that I am back
now that the parallel reality
I found
is left suspended out there
in a part of the globe
where I shall not return

now I know
that such a removal
had a curious effect:
it has made me realize how bleak
my life actually is
because you are not in it
how empty I feel
incomplete
and sore

and thus
this trip
has made me
love you even more.

Labour

Giving birth to expression
is so difficult sometimes.
When I need most to unravel
the emotional knots
in the thread of my thoughts
I push
wait
then push again
panting.

I flinch and cry out in despair
I want to give up
It's too much
I feel sore
but no, I won't dare

and anyway pushing
is inevitable
so I push once more

I push as hard as I can
and the pain pushes me too.


But it's impossible to deliver this time -
not even for you.



Yet all the strength this entails,
the courage, the patience -
I know that I have them,
Be sure that I do.

It's language
that's blocking the way
for this revelation -

for this unspoken
unspeakable burden
to blurt itself out

to shape itself true.

 

mute explosion

When your thoughts and mine
unleashed
- though unrevealed -
meet somewhere beyond the atmosphere
in a wonderland
divine
a curious reaction takes place:

a powerful
- though mute -
explosion of desire bursts out
and we feel that the power of that language -
much as the words remain unsaid -
could make us fly
unite
or die.

But no one notices
(no one cares, no one pries)
you blush
and I go red


and we carry on with our lives.