Daylight Almost 'till Midnight

(edition for writerscafe)

Daylight Almost ‘till Midnight

 

a bicyclist drove over my sight

bearing through the long distance in front of me

recalling a memory how I once cycled

taking every last breath out of my chest

to think I may well be born a quantum of an indissoluble sun

O! the probable happiness, not one bit feasible I LOVE IT ‘till meltdown

 

now a chain-smoking otherness has reached

my tidal pool of the self in rapid movement on a spot

outlined in white a gardener is at stake

a follower who seeks those who might follow

I’m low on dreams and am not in possession of a bicycle

 

sitting under a rusting rustique over my repeating head

taken the form of an angular pub’s arc incriminating me to look

as an abandoned saint who seeks his truth appearing dreamy

under a skyline of smoke from foreign funnels

to think everything is foreign

 

a life without a single lie casting from afar my dull grin, impossibly idyllic

daylight’s chime, tan the bleakness out of our mutual warm grey skin!

and my pearl-skin, colourless, blank in places, or dark haired, plain weird. Weird.

so I want to become one of the white-lies’ short-people; to be closer to

wearing short shorts and candid smiles of pride & ease; that’s close enough

 

whatever the weather, far-off minded soul & soulful body in overcast

but it seems I don’t know my weather anymore

I can’t recognize it I can’t feel its presence (monstrosity at its most)

an awful state to be tortured by loss of

the last handfuls of restful sand palmed from our Earth trickling through my fingers

 

it’s distancing itself away over ancient gardens, leaving my world, unreadable

over snow storms wrapped around madly industrial old plants raising headless

chimneys as swords like phials inhaling our mystified blood for

the production of long gone motor-vehicles and robotic machines mindless

not yet forged by thought consuming revolutions, of me neck-deep in one,

to be senseless

(gorging black look, but breathing) I’m a snowman high on snow - I admire -

why doesn’t a moderately wealthy spiritual tempest take me in

I don’t mind the turmoil or metal-detectors stripping me to taste

the shrapnel

I just want to touch you, mankind; panzers, recoil!

 

to feel enrichment, clusters of coasts unknown to me (O! wondrous seas

salvation at reach) to move on beyond all epic glees, the mee-mees

droning after fire has been ceased; new calling, breathtaking

forgive my logic but a war can be peaceful, though

excruciating still; almost the same old race for fame & power

 

no matter my shattered pulverized bones

it doesn't matter anymore for this is

not political or nuclear

to reach out or to be reached

war of a soul it has accepted to join in

 

ours poetry, the hybrid armour of organic fabric -

to let go of my industrial body! timeless for its uniform with the greater masses

of boring bio-similarities & redundant whims vexing & hexing us

everything's a mass murder addiction killing thoughts

yet in absolutely divine ways of the archaic

who's-to-say infested or

crowned by

mind

 

the undivinable kind

© Artūrs Lūsis

Author's Note

Any reviews are welcome, as long as it depicts your views ;)