which is

why the middle of

the road is

no place

to

fall

in

love.

 

What if each

of your thoughts,

your emotions,

your every

wish

were really just

a continuation

and

a respite

of your timeline ‽

If every question were

really just an exclamation of

joy

that can barely contain

the entonation

of jubilation of every

Ahaerlebnis

available

to the poet...

© rupísima

This
impeccable
habit of yours
of finding fault
ends here.
The road
beckons.
After
all,
I still belong
to a
prestigious
and fearless clan-
criminals of distance,
victims of
proximity-
always
on the
run.
Wilderness
calls,
unregretful shoelaces
in hand,
unbridled desires
tangled
in unkempt tresses
awaken.
She laughs.
I laugh.
Don't look now,
don't.
I still laugh,
I still run.
don't.

© rupísima

us,
cursed handful,
proud wanderers of
modest reigns,
mustardesque drifters,
oniric origamists,
gravediggers & pickpockets of
infinity,
ruthless manglers
of few tomorrows,
unbridled kites chameleoned as trees,
oblivious chronicles
of defeated syllables and
unwa(rra)nted semes,
us, we too
subsume we.

Let Crumpled notes
under a bed
demand
another
tryst.

Amber hours
deliver
the
joys
of
melodious
insignificance
and
unbridled
cartographies.

Right angles still colonize these spaces of desire and redemption. An old wall calendar drops a day to secure an invisible order. Geometry garbles an insult.

Of Opacity, Oblivion & Other Omen

I'd trade that look
for a subtitle below it;
and I
would lose.

I'd unclench my fist
if I could
forget;
and I would lose.

I'd open my door
if the ground
stood still;
and I would lose.

I'd paint my walls
with the dust
of shooting stars
and I'd wish upon them;
and I would lose.

Somewhere,
between these last
strokes on my keyboard,
your perched glasses upon
deciphering frown
and an exotic sand-glass,
I will be lost;
but I will not lose.

On a separate note:
I'm looking at my own text above.
It is rather worrisome;
there is hardly any room to READ
to breathe, to read
to breathe, to be
to breathe, to move
I am
unsure
of this transformation
Of space,
of shape,
of vocabulary,
of aspiration
and mostly
of intention.

I wonder.
I wonder,
I wander...
yeah, right...
I wish!

The "normal,"
the sedentary,
just launched
a projected procedure
at my window.

I wanted to scream,
to run.
to run...
to run.

And then
your note
reminded
me
of
the
many spaces
we already
roam,
the wandering
wishes
we share
and the smashing
days
ahead.

Run

© rupísima

When
will you
stop
looking for typos
here
and
err back
into the
sunlight ?
tacit brown pupils
boisterously promise
another
shipwreck
between
the
notes
of an
unsung
aria.
i have not missed you either.

 

Are you there?

Silences chasing

acute

stridulations

of

chirping crickets,

absentminded fireflies

wandering

in an empty backyard

taunt

the delights of my solitude.

Piercing absences

re-colonize

unchartered deserts of

a less

egregious me.

In this darkest night

the possibility

of your

existence

turns me into

a paper lantern

under a desolate azabache sky.

Things one

could

never utter,

exclamation marks

stuck in

her eyebrows,

anonymous guillemets of

mute absentees,

infinite elliptical wish lists of the forbidden,

etched in blue on her torso.

An unforgivable

route promised a nuchal tour

and meandering course into

the faceless

gaze

of

your

imagination.

Yesterday

draped

in oblivion,

she

etched

tomorrow's

expeditions

into

shades of

indelible blue

on her back.

Now, you

are

doomed to

perdition

and

poetry.

 

Feel free to get lost!

Basically, you have

only

two options

you either

get lost

or

you die.

Geography

is just

an excuse

to

keep you alive.

Where borders,

deltas and parallels

are designed for finitude,

you and I are not.

I mean it.

You and I are not:

You are not:

Naught.