Принц Папа Жан

Book Of Love

Prince Papa Jan


Dedicated to the world-famous writer, philosopher and spiritual teacher Lora Yordakieva (Makhatmadevi).

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 sin,

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 brave,

the rebellious,

the unique

the last…

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.







beyond law and morality,

beyond signs and concepts,

beyond grief and deprivation,

beyond pride and prejudice,

beyond irony and flattering,

beyond peace and war,

beyond all I can name,

and beyond that is nameless,

there are the two of us

The two of us you and I!

There we are sweeped in fiery light,

there we exist,

there we are the essence of ourselves,

there we are sincere,

there we are two bodies,

there we live but do not burn,

there we not merely make love but truly fly,

there we have nothing to lose nor gain,

there we belong to each other tp the very last,

there we do not languish but roam,

there are the two of us there together.

What I know is not your grimace

but your true self,

you, whom I do not possess and cannot fathom,

whom I have touched,


smothered in the ocean of my emotions,

with whom I have stepped on the brink,

with whom I shared dizzy moments,

whom I loved in every way possible,

whom I could see without her intellectual trappings,

with whom i shared body

who shared body with me,

who often erred,

who is a vision and a woman,

with whom i am still painfully in love,

a woman who can embrace,

can kiss,

and whom I would not lose by virtue of intellectual impotence,

whom i would not disfigure in linguistic hypocrisy,

whom I would not call a nun and send into a convent,

a woman  who can ask the holy of holies from me

a woman for whom I’d sacrifice my life even,

Even my life, my life!

The grain remains in me

which I will not drop from my palm

and which I know will blossom

and which you will some day comprehend,

which isn’t revenge or self-love

but a beginning, a beginning!

It’s our beginning, a new one.

I possess your bright essence

with which I touch every painting,

it resembles the dawn

the beginning of each poem,

it helps me breathe

and lulls me to sleep at night,

it comes in my night dreams

in my very existence,

it takes me back in time,

to every corner of the world,

and even death would not part me from it,

with it I will stare at each wave

it will help me fight my nightmares,

and it will inspire me.

It’s too late for me to give up

it’s too late for you to give it up,

Too late, too late…

Your lunar image is real,

your lunar dress is splendid

your lunar face is tender.

We both are in the lunar wedding bed – silvery snowy white.

In the lunar quiet we touch each other and whisper.

You are a lunar heart, a lunar heart…

A snake bites my pillow

it bites with tongue and with words,

that snake whom I have painted

the I know and don’t know

the ruinous snake

the snake under the breast

the one feeding on air,

the snake of revenge,

I win over her I do!

I painted you like a goddess,

like a saint,

like a woman.

I painted you on the sea shore

the shore between the goddess and the saint.

The shore between the saint and the woman.

The shore of truth, of nudity

The shore on which I embrace you.

I embrace your shadow

your body,

and every one of your dreams

except the absurd one – of forgetting you !

I will never, never, forget you, my darling…

I clutch hands again in prayer!

In my prayer I search for you!

Ages come and go again!

Again time comes to and end!

You are my super-nova again!

Again I am carried by the wind!

Again I kiss you with it!

Again I have bowed my faced down to earth!

Again my breath flies in the sky!

You are my prayer again!

You are with me again, with me again!

Beyond strength and weakness,

beyond longing and grief

beyond my voice in the night,

beyond my hottest passion,

beyond suffering and suspicion,

beyond thought and delirium

beyond all that can be explained,

where my voice is purest,

where we again embrace,

somewhere there we are still together…

We are together, we are!

Fiery light engulfs us,

why do you ask me again?

“What of me has remained in you?”

Your beauty remains

like tune brome a broken gramophone record.

Untouched little spark, a virgin,

a memory all too fragrant

time and timelessness,

a feast of the unspoken

the first-night performance of the play called “Love”

a passionate moon, an orgiastic moon.

Colorful daisies bursting into stars.

Rock bas-reliefs whispering.

Mornings which hint at something.

A heartache which projects thoughts.

Energy I still do desire to control.

A delirious thought! A prelude to the next poem.

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