Incest. Another Love One Hundred Thirty Four.

Incest.

Another Love One Hundred Thirty Four.

Life’s bedside story to lullaby the Capricorn. “You’ll find me in a bastard prompt”. “You’re an illusionist of love. You are a puppeteer. It’s sleight of hand. You’ll throw on the stage forgotten lines and lyrics as if they came from nowhere”. “They’re only good at ruining the world. But ruins are major attraction. It is the gravitation  force between two godless, godlike cynics baptized to grow into monsters. Some people are born players. Some people were born to be played. It’s nature’s sleight of hand. The magic is still here. Love can’t be prompted. Love can’t be overheard”.

“The ocean  takes no prisoners,

They’re useless,

When they’re alive and breathe,

It takes a good care of fish,

Providing them with human waste,

It’s the exposure of  greed,

I stared at the shipwreck,

Mounting at my feet,

I still lived in the jar with sorrow,

Keeping in formalin my grief,

Mermaids were making love to water,

On the seafloor time was a snail,

It paced with a tremendous effort,

Among curls of sea shells,

Memory hit like the electric current,

He left and took reality with him,

I started to adjust to fiction,

The world got smaller,

I felt no sense in living,

He stole my ability to leave,

He reaped awards for being romantic,

It snowed in Julie,

He left for no destination,

He took with him his words,

They’re longer than the longest train.

I’d never felt so little and so helpless,

I gazed out of glassy eyes of fish,

I heard collage of paraphonia,

It tapped ‘he left and now what’,

It happened,

My mind was a minefield”,

“He might have left to get some ice-cream,

What flavor do you love?”

“He must have got it from Alaska,

After he crossed the Bering strait,

It was the last time he was seen,

He always envied fate of pilgrims,

He wandered seven years in the Tibet,

He roamed the Siberian rainforest,

He dreamt about being a monk,

Trapping a noiseless beast,

He drugged  us all,

On the edge of the breathless,

He was my drug,

I was his dear rug,

Running under the feet of my addiction,

Under the needy shoes of love,

Addictions are retouched

When we are not addicted,

They are without flaws,

Because we don’t mind, 

‘He left and now what’,

It wasn’t  the beginning,

It was the end of what we would have been,

But we did not”.