She rises above horizon

As she rises above the horizon -

cigarette smoke, scorching sun,

burning leaves, flaming wind,

nothing heals her more than

the lightness of her hairs.

Graffittis, murals, paintings, sculptures,

hunderds of clouds telling stories,

of pain, love, loss, and death,

this all world fades away when 

she faces the camera.

Each puff, each song, is a train,
that goes to streets of senselessness,

but she rejects seriousness of this situation ,
as if she had a choice - but she hasn't,

she lives in the scarf 

which flew through the wind 

to grace her existence.

To paint her

 A never-ending urge to submerge my body -
my hands, my feet, my head and my breast,
into the colossal can of coiling colors,
to paint reality into the canvas of her body.

But why do I wish to paint reality?

Reality is what you sense or feel,
but it fades away with time
as my gaze changes with time -
what seduces me now is
gone when the moment is gone.
So I want to freeze it, seduce it,
paint it and then frame it.

But how should I start?

To freeze reality is
to bake its soft nature - 
the water flowing,
the wind blowing,
on the infinite canvas
of her glorious body -
by dipping in the pool of colors,
and to paint myself.

But what's the nature of her canvas?

This canvas, though colossal,
is the beginning and end of my pursuits.
It's all I have, it's all I crave.
Though a part of this expanding universe,
it is infinite in some sort.
It's bounded but detailed like her body -
her fringes, wrinkles, bends, and moles,
each gaze at the abyss of these details,
gazes me back and asks - 
if I have really finished gazing her all.

As I make love with her,
I paint flowers, feathers,
stars, comets, constellations,
galaxies and all things gigantic,
on around her curves,
her folds and her bends,
her back, on her neck.
It all imprints, whatever I have got,
colors on my body on her body.
I paint all over her canvas -
the reality which all I know,
is now engraved on her.   

 

Feel the other question

Centuries of asking questions

and pursuit of finding answers, 

brought bafflement in every quest

of finding answers around a pocket nest.

The nest with safety and less entropy -
a Mom kiss-feeding food to her baby,
is where it knows answers to some questions.
But does it really care, where the nest stands?

It stands on a tree with:
sharp branches, 
like a knife brain that tears you apart;
or the roots ingrained deep inside,
like the sap of bias which binds us all.

But

Can we sit safely on those branches 
and build pockets of less-entropy love? 
Can we ever replace sap of biases
with the sap of universal love?

Firstly, Branches

Branches are self-similar like fractals, where:

every small scale is a new moment;

every answer is another question - 
like the way "I love you" in the first moment, 
but not really sure about that, 
but in the next moment I'm pretty sure "I (used to) love you",
but not really sure in this very moment, and so on..

That is to say that,

I can build a pocket on this sharp branch
and still love you,
just don't ask me if I really do,
because then I will move to the next moment -

build a pocket and then answer you back,
hoping that you won't ask me again.

Secondly, Roots

Roots feed sap to the whole tree,
yet some nests stock more sap than others

and thus, the bias varies a lot 

across the whole tree.

The idea is to not stay in a pocket nest

and build a sap different from others.
Rather to sit on those sharp branches,
and just sense the sap,
which binds all those moments together.

That is to say that, 
"I love you" can be a nested proposal 

with several moments of surity and perplexity.

Yet, the sap of "love" binds those moments together.
(The bias of emotion binds your time together).

What you need to do is to:

look beyond your forms of life,
and find those sharp branches, 

which looks like can tear you apart,
yet, you attempt

to feel some moments,
of universal love in them,
till infinity and beyond.

%ideas
sharp branches == fractals == self-similar == Kripke's truth == "statement 1" in set 1 and "statement 1 is true" in set 2 and ""statement 1 is true" is true" in set 3 and so on..

tear == getting caught in statement true/false contradictions

infinite scale in fractals == infinite moments

feel the question == prevents you from getting caught in truth loop.

The next step

On this sunken soul
I stand firm, with feet of brain -
each moment sinks me down,
as I palpitate like my heartbeat.

To the land of logic, I stand, 
deciding each event of the future.
What's next: drives me, haunts me,
she pulls me or she pushes me - I'm torn.
With no flesh and no blood, still I stand,
brain engulfs me, yet I am sinking down.

Submerging into the abyss of my soul,
my brain diminishes and droops down.

But what's soul all about?

Soul is a vast grave of logico-emotions -
silence, gaze, eyes, tears, and poems.

But the question still remains,
What's the next step?
Where are you heading?
Is this a place where
a brain is no more, before it sinks down the soul,
or a brain still working but in this grave new world.

Metapoetry

 A thunderbolt of thought,
so striking yet years apart
gave me a piece to write - 
something that you might call "poetry".

A poem is what your brain is,
you can't predict, you can't describe.
The moment you describe, it slips away from you -
like the slippery something you want to say, but it slips,
or the rational thought you want to stick on, but it slips.

Each thunderbolt comes in and goes away,
you've but few seconds to see it, say it.
Why is the first fiery thought the special one?
If you really forget it, is it really the special one?

It seems like special as it excites you at glance -
the way, I met her, dated her, and got excited at glance.
After a while, as that thought get stagnant and stale,
the love gets boring and the relationships start to fail.
Is there something which is special and keeps you ON,
or the notion that to be on is to be afraid of loving all.

Loving all is to not restrict yourself to rationality,
to not be with ONE and but to be ONE with everything.
That is to be open for everything alive and around,
waiting for it to strike you and poetise you down.

Utopia

That moon or that equation,
submerged me into it,
like a a dead body sinking down -
bones, earth, bacteria, and consonance.

A consonance with the universe -
stars, galaxies, or the stardust infinite.
Are you really conscious?
Or your thought is the thought of stars.

The stars might not think but still,
they are close to other stars so they don't care - 
they act the way you can't describe,
the way you can't describe how she loves me?

She loves me the way I don't know-
her smile, her gesture is so spiral and secret.
Secret are those movements of stars,
they yearn to submerge deep into those stars.

Sumerge as in they kiss her -
make love and destroy what they truly are.
To destroy what you really are
is to love someone and to not be who you are.

Are we really someone or are we "love"?
Do we really exist outside your heart?
Imagine walking around with no heart.
Feeling nothing but knowing all,
and still knowing nothing what you feeling are.

Logico-emotional art: 1