The Forbidden Purple

The dusty manuscripts of my life is full of recurring metaphors,

Borrowed and abused words,

As if it’s the anthology of the same poem (?) in different languages

Lost in a absurd forest of signs, yet lured

Like a useless creeper’s boastful journey to the hill-top.

If some day I find the ink to paint the eloquent shaped “You”

I’ll name a garbage dump after me.

In the ecstasy of finding the true color of an autumn

In the amusement of finding music in the husky voice of aged winds

I won’t mind, if no theory of aesthetics supports this blemish of mine

And starts Bargaining over my head, then …!

II.

My heart is the antithesis of an epic, fabricated by the fancy of a fiction-eater

The ethereal innocent words, insane disloyal thoughts

Contrasted like the teeth and skin of a colored man

But I can spill no more red to make your imaginary characters look prettier

Neither the sea can nourish itself by its own blue and tides…

My favorite stepmother —– You are the thirst of saltwater,

A lust ruthlessly alive to kiss the forbidden lips that imitate your smile

Like that mythical king who wanted to be fertile forever

In your brush stroked Garden of Eden, it’s the fate of paler snowflakes

, Stupid Creature…Yes! I burn….

III.

I’ve never been a poet to claim your tangy ownership

Smell your ink made organs to soak my tobacco-dried lungs

But as a part of a profane imagination, with your skin

I make my beloved dancing shoe,

I dance and I dance till the last drop of water inside

Hoping my sweat will become tomorrow’s rain,

A rain which may wash away the guilt full legend of a poet

Who died to become your merchant of flavors for centuries .

IV.

Open the door; open the door, I’m tired of your cruel measures

Of my zero gravity, the arrogant narcissism of magical shapes, signs.

My words are too light to hide in the subterranean dusk of your hair,

Recklessly nomadic to rest upon the ivory whites of your bosom.

The bruises of longing became purple already, yet there is no trace of that ink.

Now, I only laugh at my seedless obsession,

And go mad about this truth.

Poetry – My bohemian whore

— Just -don’t –hate- me.

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#writon