Pov It is more than a miraculous exchange. The silk rustles, the scent is of jasmine and lemon, heavy, sweet. The water will sparkle and quench even with the sight of it. The virgins will believe me special, my burning flame extending their purity. I care for you less than you care for me. Your world is a bubble of the putrid, oozing slowly. I am in this, my world of dust, broken stones and souls. In the buildings before me is where Bakr and Ali, through a clear project mobilized by kefir’s logic in a murderous project to realize their entire sly nature at once, in one dance of death, in order to put on stage a collision in the love binding our companions. But I with the true warriors will bring the divine enterprise out of the madhouse and haphazardness of sinister ambushes and evil designations into the ruler ship of the faithful by my action and will end their words. I know you too reader and watcher whining in your opulence and sleaze. But you do not know my exuberance. It does not appear. It cannot be thought or felt by you. I have known your pleasures without meaning. I know your rooms of sinning screens. I know your unknown pasts facing a present of sense drugged frustration. I will never externalize my love in connections of uninspiring molasses and write there sicknesses in which I expose the core of my soul full of ardent love. For a thousand and one reasons I shall not convey the sweet and tender, except for this creation of fire and my ascent in pure fire to the memory of cold mountains and the smell of spring moving down the river. I am not tormented as you and laid bare in the eye of public judgment. I live in the gold cordoned boundaries of faith. The text of my inner self is the holy text. It astonishes me. Like Leonard Cohen I do not like what happened to my sister.
Posted on: Fri, 29 Nov 2013 10:28:27 +0000
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