|"Quiet Silence", by Oleg Duryagin|
Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human face;
Terror the human form divine,
And Secresy the human dress.
The human dress is forged iron,
The human form a fiery forge,
The human face a furnace sealed,
The human heart its hungry gorge.
(William Blake, “A Divine Image”)
fidgeting with ● reminiscences of a non-time square of burns ● and bringing them back into… play? ● no, today those rhymes I couldn’t put away for… ● woke me up – seedlessly without ● a profound outward gutter to sleep in? ● dreamed role-transfigurations in the midst of…? ● through reveries, the slogs may be, they seem so ● delicate dances swish open, enlarging the abyss of feeling nothing ● amplifying the skin to touch the precipice of walking away without ● and (in-)prosing the unbearable side of this insensibility ● that sets me softly down beside the innocuous visible of the delusional, am I? ● that’s what gets me lost in the stream and chatter of a non-touch ● there are little birds crying out to be heard outside ● they are inviting me to keep up with ● I slit the window open and just hark back ● a glass of wine, on that table mixed up with books and photos and invisible lands, it is ● stuffing imaginations and echoes behind ● but, once I pour the liquid in to, once I go there ● there's nothing to skin ● neither fear, nor boldness ● there’s no heat, no chill ● not even a wish ● of crying, of whisper, nothing to laugh off or tear down ● I don’t want to grin or bear up against whatever ● I only skim over the birds, and the wine, and across everything enticing me to flute with ● but can’t recognize them in me ● there's neither hunger, nor a glut of things ● not even overwhelming steps or pulp delusions ● nothing to blush to or leave behind, there's nothing to skin ● have I moved out… ● away from me? ● who knows everything, please don't say me the way ● who knows nothing, I beg you, just remain softly in your hush ● don't despair, don't concern ● I even no longer remember ● who’s traced me this ●