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Dedicated to the world-famous writer, philosopher and spiritual teacher Lora Yordakieva (Makhatmadevi).
A LERIC POEM
The look of your face I know not…
What I know is the demonic lust, creeping on your skin,
shining under the moon-light,
the glitter of seven candles…
What I know is the woman in search of me,
– the wild crests
of waves smashing on the shore,
– your radiance,
the stars dancing on your forehead
the waltz of fire-balls frolicking in your bones,
I know the squirts of champagne of the vitality
radiating from the pores of your flesh,
I know the opium of your lips
I know the despair of the charted destiny –
I know Lora – I do l …
Within me survives the grain,
suffused in light which bursts out
and breeds color on the sky
from which golden raindrops fall
which envelop the earth’s crust
which yields blossoming inspiration
which in turn becomes a maze
where I am lost in search of you
and am quite aware that you are looking for me too…
I know you are looking for me –
mindless, forgetful, without will, without your own self even,
like a radiance lost in a mysterious land,
like a will-o’-the-wisp over an infinite morass,
like eyes lost in the trail of dust swept by the wind,
like the unwitting search for truth,
like Tibetan Revelation,
in a vision –
a woman’s vision
fought by that same woman;
like a fate.
Like a fate, like a fate.
Where the non-existent abyss
bares naked its breasts,
where you alone are painfully essential
and are the only thing real,
where I pine
for the spot where you stand –
the only one, the divine one,
who gazes at the spiritual treasure-trove
of a woman with splendid body
living only verbally…
spiritualized in their soul she struggles for breath of air
and for a meaningful existence.
Yet again it turns into splendid words
and starless heaven.
If it was the bared abyss with its promises,
if it was the woman with her desires,
if it were the sun’s rays which nourished me,
or the milk of the shy reality,
or a virtual image,
or that of my cousin with which I sinned
when quite young,
or the image of the thing I still call “thrill”
or my regular step forward –
a fire-dancer’s one it is!
The spark is still within me –
the one which drops wildly into the bundle of hay
and which transfigures the night in flames;
which tastes bitter both in the air and in the wine;
which reconciles the vision and the woman
after which they are enthralled and the thrall is sweetly melancholy
standing naked… It tears up with its teeth first the corset,
sinking its tongue under it and kisses the nipples
and in them the oceans are scarlet
and a purple tornado
is waving like a flag
over waves of fire
amid which you are standing.
A maid whose desires are pinned on me…
A vision which renounces me…
A myth, a bas-relief upon my lurid creation…
The bas-relief of the Priestess of Temptation…
A bas-relief of the snake from The Revelation –
a somber thought and battle –
a war, a war.
Within me is left the romping caress
of thirteen fatal paintings reaching you
with the tips of their wildly passionate tongues.
My thrill and your naked breast are millimeters apart,
yet they are also light years away from each other
and they are hugely swollen.
They are ready for the next explosion
Thirteen furies from it sink their teeth into one another’s neck
but instead of blood they yield ambrosia –
that divine, blessed opium which kills not
but only enlivens.
It streams down the snow tops
and the stones under the avalanches melt
and Man comes to life-
yes , he comes to life.
He comes to life, dwarfed within his tiny body
which is inspired and excited
– it is madly in love and intoxicated with thrills.
It is so mad and thirsty that it drinks up the entire universe.
The taste of champagne also makes it crazy.
Now it is nothing but wings spread over both good and evil.
It is a bridge between truth and falsehood.
It inhabits a world midway between the heavenly one and the beastly one.
It is nothing but the human creature.
Human, all too human!
I have thirteen phalli left which yield plasma in profusion
The excited phalli from thirteen nights.
Those thirteen nights,
in which lovers sinfully passed
through every single circle of Hell
and reached The Absolute
where the tragedy is Paradise
while Hell is the boringly warm
at the hot bed of Love.
The bed where a lonely intellect dreams
of the grandeur of the impotent sculpture of its Fall
when the urge is replaced by habit;
Freedom is dressed like a courtesan
and waits upon bored perverts.
What I have left are the cells like wide open mouths
which belch furies and harpies;
Erinyes whip them with magic scourges
and reality changes after every blow.
It changes, it changes!
With me remains the sailing raft of the Thrill –
the thrill devoted to all nymphs,
the thrill locked up in my casket,
in my treasure-trove –
the one I stole away,
the one which the guardians of myths
tried to take away from me.
The one which I preserved…
The one which preserved me…
The one that I poured down all over you –
tiny like a molecule where we both hid.
And lived in.
Far from the vain pride of surfeited gods.
The one with which I poured myself all over my paintings
with which I created worlds
where there was not hatred
which I failed to understand and which didn’t understand anything either.
We inhabited its most splendid version,
we were born there ourselves
and rose on the horizon like a moment and like eternity,
which resembled our tiny bodies, oh, Lora
Our tiny bodies, our tiny bodies!
What is left is the golden cocoon of your heart –
the one in which I escape from the vanity of the world,
the one which returns me to you
the one in which I hide my eyes from the dreary drabness
of a predatory age in which you desperately fight for survival,
where there is no sincerity
– a fact we stoically endure;
which evokes life before the birth of man,
which is cruelly heathen,
which chains us in strict order,
which is most cynical when the most refined,
which is most impersonal just when it tries to find a face,
which is most cosmic when it locks us up
in the dungeon of its Revelation
and which makes you call the Woman a shadow.
The woman, the woman!
The moon is what remains for me,
that same one which comes to my bed in the night, whispering;
which has your features,
which unaware of being transformed into a loved one,
possesses me and alters me,
pouring me down on its rays towards Nature
while – reflected by Nature – these same rays bring me back high up there
where we are together –
far from the perverted carnival of the world.
Where other standards apply
where harmony is passion
where reason enjoys itself
where the body is spirit
where you open the door towards other dimensions
where I am a gateway towards a sublime creation
where ecstasy is reason
where in oblivion we recall the Truth
which is nothing but naked nymphs on horseback.
These are our cells, our cells!
A spiritual shell is what I have left
hiding it in my pocket
to which at night I speak
and our words hover in space
where I create my own Self –
so I can again reach you
secretly penetrating your mirror image
to the deepest corners of your consciousness
to caress my memories of it
to hear your confession
– that, which your powerful Ego
prevented you from uttering
The last, the last!
What remains are your inscrutable thrills.
Those thrills that touched me
And which tingled in turn;
which possessed me and of which I took hold.
They penetrated heavy walls;
they tore the clothes and melted the skin;
they attained an impossible world
of our own desire.
They turned into a flock of birds
– into a fugue played by the orchestra
of all the winds in heaven and earth.
We drifted enthralled
and became a ringing tune ourselves.
We had no past nor future
-all we had were our own selves – entirely.
We were in total possession of ourselves,
in total possession of each other!
I slowly search for your image under the distorted grimace
which your inscribed verbally upon your own body.
I am trying to erase it but it is tattooed –
it is engraved deep in your spirit.
To erase it would be to break you up completely.
To lose you.
I search for your image and find it again
but it is a body soaked in heavenly milk,
a body upon which dance little fiery jinns
which chase one another and give shape to your caresses;
They descend upon my palm
and under my tongue
under my eyes
and my eyes uphold my whole being
which in turn sinks into my consciousness
that is my very own secret.
My secret pours out into the verses of a poem
which is transfigured into a picture
sinking into the ice of my heart
and it spills out and baptizes me once again.
It baptizes me, – baptizes me again
Your face it also baptizes
and it once again shines bright without any grimace.
It radiates a sunny smile towards me,
sprite, lively and blissfull –
just as it once was…
The past comes back and I have you to myself again.
I have you, I do!
Although you are not with me.
I sink deeply under ideas and visions…
Under the cheeks burdened with concrete and neon lights…
Under the multi-media reality…
Under the global omens…
Under dark towers…
Under the frantic, hysteric,
Under the theatrical longings…
Under the forged fire
under the forged light
under the forged storm..
Under the modern wise-men who massage the truth…
Under the sinful eyes
of the neon reality…
Under the mask of speech upon your face…
Your skin, too, is somewhere there
guileless, stainless, genuine.
Somewhere there is the magic
that changed my life.
Somewhere there is the energy
which is out of my control
and which rather leads me
and I believe in its purity.
You are nude and vulnerable.
Nude and unfathomable.
You are the ring of my existence.
There magic and mysticism are having fun together
and heavenly raindrops are kissing the earth.
There, night emanates from your face
shaking off the black velvet
covering naked torsos of marble.
There twinkle two hearts
two abysses of soft brown velvet.
There, through the eye-lids, radiate the rays of stars.
There is the truth rid of the devil.
There are we, ourselves.
Blameless but locked up
within the orderly universe, charted out
in the countless texts of its existence.
There are the Olympic games.
The pearly insanity is also there.
I touch a tender surface
and tenderness itself touches me.
I swim within it
and it jumps above my excitement – half fish half woman.
From there spring all those things
which we destroy in convoluted ideas.
It is ghostly, yet real.
That is where you are, too.
Take a look roundabout.
Your face is the face of a woman.
It is a woman’s face, your face, Lora!
Where the demons never lose their images
and do not turn into sectarians with plastic smiles
where angels are not dropping flags
where the wholeness does not melt into banality
where making love
is all too real.
There, on the tips of your fur
where my tongue describes my desolate existence,
where that existence
is described by my tongue
where I stripped you naked for the first time
only to create a different “you” with my caress
and from the marble idol of the immortal woman
to derive – by her single groan –
the soul of the fleshly, corporeal one,
who in her turn ressurrects me…
Your words were helmeted guardsmen
down whose lances
was flowing the voluptuous juice of insanity…
The one in which we are to be poisoned…
The one which netted us
in the intoxication of our intellectual hangover
where – of course – is your own devil
your lover who tries to tear us apart
but who has neither my stature
nor my guts
nor my vitality which means life.
You, Holy Madonna, are somewhere there,
yielding both to the Pharaoh and to the last
one elected and empowered by God
who is to lead his people
across the spiritual desert.
Across the spiritual desert, – across it and towards you.
Where nothing wears out and the bodies float
along a spiral to the bottom of the essence.
Where mutual passion is in the holiness.
Where the sinister masks of the serious are droll.
Where the macabre faces are those of clowns.
Where flesh is dew.
Where the leaves speak.
Where it is early spring and plants are budding.
Buds on the branches of trees, buds on your breast.
Buds of inspiration,
out of which blossom works of art
which tomorrow will be called “great”
and will remain enigmatic.
I am not calm there
– I am filled with furious energy
which unexpectedly bursts out in the tightest embrace.
Tender lights are yearning just above our temporal bones;
they widely unfold our hidden sensory nerves.
Of course they doom us to suffer, too, naturally,
yet, is there sanctity without torment?
There, I am a little boy.
A little boy who wants to be himself.
Who knows how to fulfill himself
and does it, caressing.
A huge sun on the lapel of wisdom,
the books we write
in order to preserve the sacred dust
which is what remains of our lives.
The huge sun of the hypocritical falsehood
that is real life
while life that is real has its own love story.
How can I hide its truth?!
How can I hide it when doing so would be
to kill part of the beauty which I could have shared
and to bring excitement where there is indifference
to give a grain of hope to the despondent one,
a sparkle to the worn out,
to stir a drop of emotion within the oligarchs,
satiated with real life.
Was I not a vampire?
Wouldn’t I have killed what you say
remains of you?
I have your bright essence,
the sensuous one,
the one giving off agitated groans,
the one hidden under your intellectual appearance,
hidden under the artificial “you”,
who can suffer, too,
who can be a panther, too,
as well as be that which is beyond existence itself,
beyond good and evil,
beyond truth and falsehood
beyond life and death
beyond the war of the sexes
beyond the glitter of worldly gold,
beyond its own self,
beyond the fruits of vengeance,
beyond the yellow, toothless groans
of a post-modern intellectuality,
which melts in waxen tears
over dead deities.
I have you, although I own nothing that is yours
although I have called the last bit of you “mine”
the last bit of you that you had condemned to exile.
I have you, although my blindness
turned you into a tower with flags
although my soul gathered your thrills like flowers,
although my destiny was part of your,
and my misery was also yours
and the loss was so unspeakably painful.
I have you like the smile of dawn
like a parable, like a nightmare,
I have you like an inextinguishable fire.
I have you like a hurricane of my consolation,
I have you like the thing skeptically forgotten by the gods,
that, which they lose and in pursuit of which they lose their minds;
the moments become myths
and philosophers give no utterance to their whitest and sincerest emotions,
like nature which woos us with snowflakes
as the last temptation
as a crazy game which brings back to me the freshness of mat
like a holiday in the festive South.
Like a festive South, like a festive South!
In the night you are a lunar rainbow
and with you I dissolve on my palette,
I paint suns on the ice of the day
they melt fragrantly.
In the night you are a lunar sorrow and with you
I quietly step in the dark
I light candles before the new-born age
and with you I welcome the dawn.
In the night you are a lunar bliss
and with you we sing ballads accompanied by the harp of the stars
and air melts into honey,
and our boat takes us on a distant voyage.
In the night you are a lunar land, and with you
we live not as we live by day;
and then you are frozen stiff…
Let’s make use of the nigh-time energy…
To make use of force,
energy from beautiful dreams…
I have you as a night, as the lunar nature,
which wakes up the ghouls.
Like the lunar image which excites the dreamers.
Like lunar beauty which inspires the lovers.
Like lunar dreams which cause revolutions.
Like lunar portent which brings to life the unimaginable.
Like lunar yearning which makes visions sparkle in silver.
Like the Moonshine sonata, played by the sincere one.
Like a lunar valley to which we aspire.
Like the lunar emptiness created by the philosopher.
Like the lunar intoxication of the poet.
Like the lunar confession of the sinner.
Like the lunar destiny of the beautiful woman.
Like the lunar nakedness of the beast.
Like the lunar excitement of the one who is ready to choose.
Like lunar madness for the one is about to sin.
Like lunar dress for the soul which is creative.
Like a lunar orgasm I have you,like a lunar orgasm.
A snake bites my pillow –
the snake of loneliness.
The snake whose tongue trembles upon my brush –
The snake which I fear and to which I am attached.
The snake which when I am asleep sneaks upon my skin
kisses me , maddens me with her tongue.
The snake which undresses and is ever a stranger.
The snake which leaves its skin upon the rocky hills,
and I gather that skin and implant them on my paintings.
The snake which – if I’m awake – will bite me and I’ll die.
The snake bites at my pillow.
The snake of revenge.
The snake which I muffle with my pillow.
I muffle her, I do!
I reduced you to a mere body, I did.
You were a star galaxy,
an impervious sky were you
larger than a wall of China,
cooler than moonless nights,
deeper than an abyss,
more dim than fog,
yet, you were a woman, too,
and I reveal it to you
but you do not admit it.
You wounded me yet I do not seek revenge.
You are my destiny in my sleep
you are like an unimaginable idea, like your sin,
like the fire-stake of conscience,
like the fire-bird hovering above it
like the one I will always long for,
like the tears with which I water my roses,
like the burning questions,
like life – my life yet which waste like everybody else,
like the noble urges,
like love in outer space and under the surface of the earth
in the clouds and yet again on the moon,
like each instant I waste
like all I think about for which I’m crazy
like all my paintings
like the nights of my revelry
like everything deprived of intellectual pride,
like my endless quest
like your embodiments in all your incarnations,
like that which lies beneath strict standards
like freedom, like freedom…
It was unthinkable when you reproached me,
when you ignored my inspiration
when you dared take away even my memory of you,
you called it a grimace,
you tried to deprive me of your shadow
and flee from me, taking away your last image…
Like live water
like a ghost
like a glittering light,
which is left to me in the deepest night
after our parting,
when I wandered in all dimensions,
when I pained for you
longed for you
when my poem was most sincere and devoted to you,
when I lived in it
and when you lived in it too
when you were my song
when the longing flickered as a moon
and I likened you to that moon
when you heeded my whispering
when I wished to scream with love
wrote for love,
gathered the world upon my palm
when I let you drop fro my palm,
when the parting of bodies
became a marriage of our souls
when I checked my e-mail
when I hoped,
that you would have sent me a smiling hope
but your words were like a knife
when darkness gripped me
when the lightning burst
deep within me
when nails sank deep in my thought
when all was muddled
then one could think of nothing
and you reproached me, yet it was unthinkable.
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