You told me there are two ends of the world, and one of them, I could never reach.
I believed every single word you have told, but never feel frustrated until we visited the elephant’s grave.
It is smaller than I expected, with apparational shadows lingering around the grey brick walls. She asked me to let you go. Standing in front of the high rise fence, I suddenly cannot be sure if you could survive or not.
“You should let him go” She pushes, “you see he wants to go.”
I scoop you in my hands for the last time, and set you into the eerie yard. There are mice skeletons scattered around, those tiny skulls casted lilac shades by the sinking sun. I know exactly this is just a part of real life, and no witch would appear from the corner of the graveyard.
The airport is incredibly crowded. A petit bald man wearing petal shorts is reading a newspaper dated twenty years ago; the gentleman past him in a black tweeds coat kicks him by accident and mumbles an apology. It was snowing outside, at first just drizzling, then flakes. The flakes are so large that each one’s shape and pattern is visible, like in Christmas paper cuts.
I invited him to Disneyland, and he agrees to go. With the high water slide and so many sakura blossoming stickers, with the ride built upon the skyscraper and powderblue cotton candy, with the horrified elephant’s grave legend and feather winter coat, I remembered what you had told me, that there are two ends of the world of one of which I could never reach.
The metal concrete glass monstrous land with those monuments piercing into heaven.
But their Dante designs zombie board games without knowing “all’alta fantasia qui mancò possa”.
The stormy afternoon with steaming heat patting the bank of my ocean.
But their beach is the real dangerous cocoon made of cheesy art and tacky photographs.
They haven’t talk for long. When she calls, there is nothing much to say. In between lines, there is just that unbearable endless silence.
But she still knows exactly, how much she loves her.
It really doesn’t matter that much, to see those people walking, talking, and laughing. Something coming from far away past strikes her, and that’s when she could feel the tender lick of time.
Their heaven is my hell.
Hives, hypoglycemia, and my lost hardcovered sacred melancholy whores,
dance, dim light, red fog, and Psilocybe Dragon’s Dynamite create
a full house of Karel’s Bobby Fischers, hiding
their true faces under cheaply made masks.
Stupidly overlooked those tiny moments which
supposed to be tremendous and enormous on my forbidden tattoo.
Time traveller and his donations of thousand cents from all over the world.
My absent journey and those paperless letters,
and my sweater thread twist between your fingers.
Now that I could see clearly into the well,
springing out distilled pernicious nectar;
now that I am too weak to act
on the ballroom’s cabreuva floor; and
now that my rancor toward your charrette-face,
growing into a holistic dream.