Image © Alexander James

She had my hands wired all around her skin.

Preparations swirled with a two hand clock in her hair,

turning it into a potent bun.

The calm northern winds, making the front door flutter
into a smile, was satisfaction

and then one day, she suddenly disappeared
into the black, for a mission.

Now each day I wake in that broken room. Boom!

She blasts herself into a hundred pigeons.

Few die in colors, a few remain,

hooting on my death.

The Falling 

I and falling again and I block the darkness in my mouth itself.

What more chaos will make them chaotic?

I don’t add further, no one will see.

I don’t spit as I don’t defame rains.

He claims he will extract my entire head, she claims the claim is good.

They don’t complain if he should.

Then they find my skin is a better model,

Bones on soft powder is the finest fall

He insists on taking my flesh for a ride, my hideous penis too strong and flashing to hide, she nods.

And I block the dark with it, I plunge into the dark with it.

How bold of her to wish from it nothing.

How bolder of her to wish from it everything

and so I fall and continue to fall in a night not naked for me but for all.

I block me in my mouth and so I don’t stay. I appear.

They extract my everything and still its a mutual honesty.

Honest killings mutually rise

He claims he has me. She claims her claim to know

and one who has anything can be hidden as everything or found in it.

What more darker would it be to witness a bright ejaculation of loss.

Love is a mating of loss. Universes are created at costs.

Live for Leaving

She tells me she no longer lives
and she tells me she has lived what she didn’t leave.

I look at the morning in front of me and at a clever morning up there, always a morning.

I turn towards her and I commit discrimination
as the first discrimination is of a morning into faces.

Something seems taking shape on my shoulder into a dream just waking

and dreams never happily sleep in mornings, never happily continue for the day.

Two strong concentrations at war over a flat piece of land beating chaotic drums and a mouth of famine hovers

over a land of non sodium, fair sodium, melting sodium

and a strangeness who takes in and forgets,
takes out and forgets in a prevalent yellow dazzling itself in a crematorium.

I have seen jellies of an unforgetting childhood forget itself badly on a face.

I have seen the gloss remain as the untouched but proud, faked noon Sea

which signals with earthly winks, and whenever the earth has winked, it has been deadly sarcastic.

Hydrogens occur in pits. They create them and stay in them

and the concentration floating has always seemed a happy population living happily but unhappily.

The jellied population has been colors at war –
Black and white, brown and white, blue and white.

Colors clash to be friends or foes

and I have seen white accept in it making broader and attractive.
I have seen white become ghostly white when they resist the beautiful white.

My world is different where the Reds always dwell inside, they appear addressed as infections, the yellow as disease.

My world is different where colors blend into a new era of permutations and combinations.

A world where varities matter more than the skin.

And the world has seen the greatest war when the war is unseen.

A color tray where extremes are friends, commoners are enemies.

In my world one fights over ‘God having different colors’ and one fights over ‘Why God is unicolored?’

And here it is all with potent abilities and their possibilities, resting on my shoulder, wrapped under a blanket dream.

An unknown darkness weighing on a shoulder feels so light.

I don’t know how unknown it will be when it’s known.

The retina yawns the dawn of actions of men.

Ears are adamant enough to label their own music and blasts.

Tongue sticks either to itself or to many.

Lips spew and seldom preach love, hate, manipulation, anger, treachery only for some.

Hands oscillate as obsessions, fantasies, politics and terrorism.

Hair is either the murderer or the protector in one.

The body is just a target to love or kill.

My shoulder does carry –
from inorganic love to organic shits.

I am in a devastating news and prepare for my news more devastating
The good news is only a way to my news thats better.

I am neither for complete destruction nor complete peace,
always stuck with the bombed woman on my shoulder.

I continue and I die as a man who has known it all like an archaeologist’s sodium with unknown future.

I die with the immense weight of a man of 21st century

dying in his own century.

True Love

The love will occur when love is no more needed.

The love will occur when cleavages will be the only vein

and in it will origin the child Ganga and her unholy pain

and I will call myself truly unholy
before calling her similar human holier.

The love will occur when missiles won’t be launched from Her camouflaged launchpads

or blown away by self invited enemies and say it has been suicide bombed.

When diplomacy of roses won’t rest in a sweet smell alone

and one will easily and happily smell the sweet, strong, pungent, unbearable
honestly calling it so.

The love will occur when a red start, a lost middle, a red fading and a lost end no longer reside in hairy faces and hairy minds,

or in selfish, metaphorical, political kinds

and he always falters, he who finds

All skulls are pale and white.

The love will occur when He who is worshipped be called a maniac

doing crazy experiments, creating a life that’s peculiar
and creating peculiar lives to kill it much before.

That one is ready to live it when one isn’t ready to be it.

The love will occur when she out of she doesn’t grow to be a ‘He’.

The love will occur when the shattered ‘He’
is gathered and formed with a chance to reform

in an utter chaos and destruction but with an unknown glee
all inside of She.

The love will occur when a floating bedsheet will act good for the day in spite of a disruption, in spite of a drift.

The love will occur when love will finally learn to sadly love its own brief occurrence.

That’s when corrupted love is more than love
and less than it,
my friend

I burn my holy cigarette making it a lover so secret

who doesn’t lose grip even when life is alone with many on a trip.

I am making a life saving shift.

True love occurs. True love flows.

The Red Omelette

© 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 my sudden inability

and attractions are sudden inabilities.

Now you will 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.

The Moon

The moon smiles. It’s smiling.

It isn’t. It just isn’t.

No, it hasn’t disappeared
or been left to disappear.

It isn’t in pain similar to mine.

It isn’t sad complying mine.

It just isn’t smiling.

I am watching it to get attached.

It’s watching me

always as an attachment.


Will he have me?

He had me, he has been having me

He will have me in my ashes
Infact, he will will turn me to ashes before that
or much before that
even if I am untouched throughout.

Still I ask, will he have me.

Then I ask myself,

what have I got and what has he got.

‘He’ is just an ideology
I am creating a new.

Somewhere he has admitted
and so somewhere he has diluted to skin and bones

as that is the maximum love after ‘I love’.

Somewhere, I should too.