Принц Папа Жан

Book

Prince Papa Jan

BOOK OF LOVE

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.

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,

post-modern banality

of reason…

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…

There…

Once again…

Together….

 

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.

Caressing, 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 sorrow,

like disease,

like desire,

like aspiration,

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.

 

Beyond thought,

beyond norm,

beyond the whisper of the drops and of the philosophers,

beyond all beginning and all end

beyond good and evil,

beyond beauty and ugliness,

truth and falsehood,

 

light and darkness,

beyond the Word

beyond the unimaginable

beyond the future

beyond the shadow and the brightness

beyond Helios’s carriage,

beyond Icarus’s horizon,

beyond desire and boredom,

beyond anything that makes sense,

or has lost all meaning,

beyond lost feelings,

beyond sensuality,

beyond sin and holiness,

beyond body and soul,

beyond the sight of our eyes,

or the hearing of our ears,

beyond each thrill of our skin,

beyond sweetness and oblivion,

beyond the cosmic gap of our soullessness,

beyond loneliness and vanity,

beyond the oblivion of merry-making,

beyond the tragedy of the world,

beyond everything we cherish deep in our hearts,

beyond all things we can think of,

or that which we forget,

beyond the ocean and the sea,

beyond the counted stars,

beyond the fog,

beyond our linguistic hypocrisy,

beyond the dreams of our youth

beyond every illumination,

beyond revelation and fear,

beyond the desired and the undesired

beyond that which long for  and don’t,

beyond the demonic and the true,

beyond the unattainable and the worry,

beyond the reproach of each word,

beyond the insanity of pride,

beyond grief,

beyond the flight from reality,

beyond the temptations of Faust,

beyond the sounds of the world,

beyond the gardens of intellect,

beyond the spiritual desert,

beyond the universal gallery,

beyond the horror of death,

beyond the irony of fate,

beyond  our notions of Satan,

beyond redemption and crime,

beyond suffering and inquiry,

beyond the possible,

beyond anything imaginable,

beyond anything we can do,

beyond the entertainments of the brain,

beyond the tunes of the seasons,

beyond inspiration and art,

beyond the sacred and the profane,

beyond the destruction of matter,

beyond our wanderings in this world,

beyond our dreams of outer space,

beyond our lies and adventures,

beyond what is written or remains unfinished,

beyond what’s painted or not,

beyond what’s composed or not yet played out,

beyond the horizon – deep under the dark surface of the invisible,

beyond each sensation by which we condemn the world to difference,

beyond all palette colors,

beyond our critical spirit,

beyond our value-systems

beyond our weakness,

beyond faith and disbelief,

beyond time and timelessness,

beyond the shattered illusions,

beyond our sick desires,

beyond our endeavors,

beyond our ability to bear loss,

beyond the pain in our guts,

beyond our talent and its rebellion,

beyond the lost sense of reality,

beyond the attained verities,

beyond all dimension,

beyond all the corners of the earth,

beyond all counted seconds,

beyond all that is past,

beyond our unabating strength,

beyond vice and virtue,

beyond the bright light of glory,

beyond the sayings of the prophets,

beyond our dalliance in vice,,

beyond hunger and surfeit,

beyond thirst and its satisfaction,

beyond the wilderness and the mountain tops,

beyond all our memories,

beyond each painting into which I infused light,

beyond all that my hand has ever touched,

beyond the hands we let part from us,

beyond the roads we separated,

beyond the nightmares we did not share,

beyond all on which we ponder,

beyond all that we reject,

beyond all we would not accept,,

beyond revenge and forgiveness,

beyond each message and disappointment,

beyond the boundaries of the insurmountable,

beyond the parting and the meeting,

beyond the collisions of atoms and stars,

beyond the break-up of matter,

beyond everything we’ve stepped on,

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,

kissed,

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.

Comments are closed.