Manifiesta con fotos (I)

TWO GEMINIS I.

We are in a hotel room in Lisbon, you look longingly at the water.

You wrote to me before the genocide; A twin flame hides our true selves, it flickers secretly in a forest in America. You kill me and then I kill you. Shoes off. No kiss after. I still hear the echo of your voice saying no, it calls drenched in hate, a strong word, deep in sleepless nights, when everything is grey, the echo breaks through in red. Castor and Pollux. The third sign, between the bull and the scorpion. A shared symbol with two etymologies. To honor their love. On a star, you seem balanced but sad. Through a mirror, a haunting in your eyes. Why do you sound like me? You stole my mask but I stole your dream. Did you really fall for it?

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WANT - HAVE

You must learn to enjoy the thirst. A continuous spark brings light into the darkness, shadows become faces. In vain I run my hands across velvet walls. The air vibrates with pained moans. Gravitational distance. The space between want and have become thinner leaving only room for ideas. Through the crazed dusty light I see every man I’ve ever loved carved into a stranger’s features. But he is here, he is dimensional. Not an idea, flesh not thought. Eros and Civilisation. We are only the inheritors. The body was created to be shared. Pleasure is gratuitous.

And yet the thrill of chasing a glint. Of a premise. And what of your blue ITALIA shirt? A smile is erected, a translation of a buried thought transmuted into a foolish boyish friendship. Ignore the rabid British man screaming in the back. A room you will never fully enter. Repress THE THOUGHT. A sentence that will never be concluded.

Empty boxers and sweat stained socks hang graciously on your bed’s frame. An invitation but no address. No point of contact. But you must learn to enjoy the thirst. It’s the pleasure of the principle. A space can be filled with anything so long as it is empty. A loyalty unbroken, a thing of honour, I don’t fucking know, an uspoken truce. Release yourself upon a stranger, keep it pure when you are close.

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TOWARDS INFINITY

You sat across from me in the museum’s cafe, drinking coffee with milk, and said you don’t believe in politics. That nothing exists beyond you. That it is simply not real. I nodded my head. You looked at the picture of the painting. You sighed and said, how pretty. I said little else, I had seen so little of the city. You have been to Japan. I thought of a lightbulb floating through my bedroom. Stuck on a loop. Infinite recurrence, we have definitely met before. Contradictions take their toll. I suggest we head home. Strangers must lead such dull lives. Simply not real. Retrograde thoughts, you hope are mistakes. Tomorrow at noon you will read my tarot. I am to pay thirty euros for thirty minutes of divination. You have read many books on the subject. I am looking from the other side. The world came up three times.

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ABOUT

Tell me your story white boy. The one about the hummingbird and the jaguar. About the blood of the saint who drank himself to death.

Tell me a story white boy. About the twin flames, how one burned brighter than the other. About the twin heroes and the constellations where they reside.

Tell me a story white boy. About brothers. About Jerusalem and Berlin. About the windmill. About boys in fields playing pretend. About the manner in which water dances in the sacred pools of Capri, about the penis of Apollo, about the moon, about the stars.

Tell me a story white boy, about the hospital of Saint James. About the prince who escaped, about the olive groves in Granada where we once danced to Nigerian rhythms. Tell me a story white boy, about your life in the new world.

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WHOM

To whom it may concern; Yesterday I drank too much and spoke too little.

Sang three Bob Dylan songs and slept with a stranger.

Today my breakfast consisted of coffee and a clove cigarette.

It is almost August and the palm trees stand tall. I have not spoken to my mother for three weeks. I have not spoken to my father in two months.

To whom it may concern; I am well.

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TOCAYO

I look at you, and I’d rather stare into your eyes than regard all the frescoes in the Uffizi.

I look at you and wonder why Manet even bothered.

You, whose name I share.

You, who pretends to be a rabbit.

You, who science cannot comprehend.

And when you cry, so do I. When you sing my soul explodes. When you dance I am erected.

I look at you, drinking lemonade, with honey, not sugar, and I’d rather gaze into your visage for a moment than live an eternity alone, in a great city, in a grand empire.

For what is it all worth if I cannot share a coke with you, now, in a Catholic country.

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