© Oleg Lipchenko (Canada)
I watch from my window,
you on the top floor
cooking a fumous omelette on a black pan.
It’s said, a half boiled is better, as we know with pride what we gulp.
I don’t know how the Sun is coagulated at a place, by a need,
turned over, though a side has seen burns.
The greed is matching, the need to be selfish is appropriate.
I want to have it. I can’t be there.
I have always wanted to have things, I am able to have.
I can’t be there.
The kitchen light growing darker and darker
in a sudden inability
and attractions are sudden inabilities.
Now the show in full glory
when my hunger turns into luxury,
where soft and fair flowers get toasted, roasted into round, gloomy bellies
with gloomy innards, for more than a need
where hunger becomes a breakfast,
where consequences prove once again
being the entertained bi-product of a clash,
where a delicious color meets its riot,
smelt breaths get fucked and sharply orgasmed,
where the saintly mobility will meet its aggressive, vigorously churned and crushed
all for entertainment.
If you want it this way, I assure, I will be entertained.
Another sneaky window will have you pour water for a future dinner
The two soft leaf stalks rising from an assured stem, twisting and re-twisting an assurance.
The roots deep inside a bowl are always reachable.
If you want this act of dominant dependance, I am ready.
My hunger is my assurance, I will kill, be killed, cook and be cooked
and never repent for it.
I will only discriminate as always, including even the tiniest.
In your case – you and the red omelette.
Look at the commonly owned poultry farm on your roof,
a thousand white hens staring at their own dark, staring at us.
Look how hungry they are for our hunger.
That’s my hunger.
When I say I can’t have you it’s true
I cannot unless you are an entertained bi-product.
In love of survival, She is nowhere
and if She is anywhere, I am beautifully somewhere
feeding on Her aesthetics and spirits
for my unwanted abundance.
She can eat herself alive, hide herself from herself, kill others in her, dry up streams, coagulate molten lavas and still grow herself back.
If you want me to be hungry for the hungriest that’s silent, I am ready for it.
Let’s call the act of ‘not getting’, Love.