cosmicmarion-blog

[cosmicmarion-blog]

Talking About You

If I had to talk about fear, I would close my eyes and talk about the day that I saw a wrinkle on my face, or in a couple of years when my teeth rot and my eyes stopped working, when the arthritis in my hands impeded me from writing to you-when I can’t control them and can’t touch you.

If right now I had to talk about hate, I would talk about all the nights you weren’t here and all the times we had to say goodbye. I would talk a little about being young and the people that say young love never lasts. Of the immaturity that we have and we had, of the maturity that we dangerously believed to have.

And if love keeps us young, why does a young man not know of love?

If you asked me what I thought about love or about bravery or courage, I would think about when my feet betrayed me and they trembled in the dirt, and of how my eyes looked for yours without finding them. I would think of my hands, my goddamned sweaty hands and my stuttering lips, and my agonizing heart, my bursting ears, and my stomach fighting a civil war just like when I told you I loved you for the first time.

If I had to describe madness, I wouldn’t find a better answer than being yours. Of our hellish fights that end in a bed. Our symphonic hearts and how free my spirit feels when I’m near you. I would tell you about how it feels to have the universe and time move so fast that you want to stop it with a punch, on the first try, to give the love of your life a kiss once more. I would remind you how it feels to fall into madness, the feeling of wanting to kill you and ending up kissing you.

If I’m going to talk about luck, I’ll think about millenniums, galaxies planets continents, nations, lives, deaths, demons and gods. I’ll think about the improbability of meeting you. How impossible it seems to know your gaze, share our lives, contemplate nights and mornings… But we do it still.

I didn’t get to be the wind, you didn’t get to be a star, we got to be human, and on top of everything life had the decency to place us in front of each other. Meeting in the middle of infinite times, years, places. The odds to make you fall in love with me were seven thousand million to one… and you stayed with me.

If I had to talk about love, I would talk about art and life. About how perfect everything seems to be. About how comfortable your shoulder was for me to cry on. About your arms wrapping me in magic. About the hard times, sickness. I would talk about how we walked to the edge of the cliff and we walked back home. About the bad movies and poems with no rhetoric. About pointless laughter and about how there exist great, huge loves-and the world is so very small. About how little distance is worth, about how much time is worth.

If I had to talk about pain I’d talk about the day you left. Without thinking about the fear you left in me, the hate, the youth, bravery, the madness, the luck, and the love. About how my letters will never get to you again. About how fulminant it is to miss someone.

If right now I had to talk about something, it would be you.

[cosmicmarion-blog]

Hide Me There

Hide me there, in that corner you never visit. Hide me in that corner of your heart who’s entrance you’ve prohibited and embarrasses you. The place where you put your sins, your perversions and your insecurities. Hide me in the hole in your heart which you’re scared to explore and accept. Hide me in the dark corner where you put all that is violent and sexual or really, your hidden wishes and the love which seems to scare you so much.

Hide me in that dusty corner where nobody has ever looked. In the quiet corner of your heart; in the edges of your lips, the curve under your breasts, and behind your ear. Hide me where nobody has kissed you, where nobody has looked. Hide me in secret.

Don’t tell anybody that you know me, that we see each other in dark rooms, in lost memories and childish memories. Don’t even tell yourself.

Hide me in secret from yourself and run away from yourself to see me. Run away from that neuritis and pretensions that make you unbearable; from the routines and your hairdo’s; from your ambitions and your worries; from matrimony and that big white house. Escape from all those plans for a family and a wedding; the plans for the future and your mothers advice, from dates in coffee shops and the taking care of your skin. Come with me when you’re running away from school, your job, grammar, your salary, bosses, white dresses, decency, pink decorations, and lipstick. When you have to escape from yourself and your unbearable rectitude and neatness.

Visit me naked of yourself and your fears, because this way, only this way, will you allow yourself to see me how I am; beaten and without beauty; deprived of any modern existence; ugly, full of scars, drunk, perverted, swollen in desire, tired, sick of dresses, running away from congregations, rude, stupid, and ignorant. But with soul.

When you visit me, let it be naked of yourself; without memories, without intentions, with a torn shirt, wide open chest, your heart like bleeding flesh. Only then, without that which you call yourself, can we truly love without regrets. Without fear of sins or fear of mistakes, free of fear of being rude or staining or screaming. When you are deprived of your ego, nothing is a sin, nothing is delicate, nothing is sickness, nothing is crazy.

Hide me in that corner which you don’t allow yourself to see. That fraction of yourself that doesn’t have an owner, that nobody knows. That place under your bellybutton, where you walk lost and unconscious; where the atmosphere is poison and being crazy is being in love. Hide me there where you place desire, violence, drinking, passion, strength, homicidal ideas and loss of control.

Hide me in the place that your mother doesn’t know. That place that your father can’t even imagine. The place that the church condemns and the schools looks for in order to control. That place that you don’t talk about with your friends. The place that scares the hell out of your little boyfriend. The place that you attempt to hide with your pretty clothes, proper way of speaking, your grandmothers jewels, your nice perfume, your new car and your parent’s money.

One of these days when you get bored of yourself; when you can’t stand yourself; when the weight of your mask fractures your shoulders; when your perfume perforates your nose and the sound of your voice hurts your ears; when the reflection in the mirror sickens you with its societal beauty and the green in your eyes is unbearably perfect; look for me, lost in yourself and your divine costumes.

When you go to that place that you don’t visit, I promise to return you naked; sinning, crazy, dirty, broken, lit up, burnt, tired, with tears in your eyes, your eyes and smile filled with guilt. Nothing will be perfect, I promise. But, I promise to return you more alive than ever.

[cosmicmarion-blog]

That poetry what?!

That poetry what?!

That poetry doesn’t change the world?! Oh, I can’t tell you how wrong you are. Poetry changes the world… and music and literature and movies and paintings and theater; most of all poetry, most of all literature, most of all music and paintings and theater.

There exists a revolution in poetry and anarchist screams in literature; there exists change, flint and stone in words, there exists fire, passion. Our world exists in words. Don’t tell me that writing doesn’t change the world!

Pablo Neruda inspired Che Guevara; while he was hiding in the jungle with leaves over his head, protecting himself from the rain, with an old wet book, holding on to his rifle like it was his life. Didn’t Nelson Mandela look desperately for poetry from his jail cell, with an empty stomach, bare feet, hurt, humiliated reduced to a cell, and even then, poetry is indispensable; more than food, more vital than sex or clothes. Poetry my friends! And Gandhi, Einstein and so many brave men and women who used words instead of ammunition.

If you see a poet, run. Because they won’t listen, because they feel, they live, they love, and if they have motive enough, they’ll destroy the universe using nothing but words, steal your love from you, they can bring down corporations, fight without falling, bleed without dying, win without beating. With words, a poet can conquer the whole world, but his path is another.

If you don’t see the connection with poetry and change, you don’t feel poetry, you don’t live, you don’t love, you don’t seduce, you don’t confront; you fear, you kneel down when the light shines down on you, you hide your face, you accept to live like you’ve lived before.

If you can’t find inspiration and a desire to to kick down prisons, schools, institutions, corruption, slavery, abuse, violence, hunger, injustice, bad deals; if your chest doesn’t fill up with anger, if poetry doesn’t fill your heart up-nothing will. If you don’t find strength in poetry, you’re scared to death.

Poetry is shouting in silence, loving delicately, bravery in frases, sex on paper, bombs that set you free, resistance, margin, adrenaline, drugs and medicine.

Poetry keeps us alive.

All through history, words, beauty and poetry have been present; surviving dictators, killing tyrants; they’ve made people fall down crying, and not kids, but the bravest heroes; they’ve caused love between enemies. Poetry has lived through wars and explained human sentiment more than science has, poetry has explored much farther than the universe, much farther than this time.

Poetry doesn’t change the world?

Don’t tell me that poetry doesn’t change the world because I can see frases tattooed on your head, I see frases in the insurgent’s flags, I see movements lead by ideals in the shape of words, in the shape of poetry; Poetry that tends to hide en childhood diaries, in abandoned walls, in alleys, in churches, in notebooks, in jail cells, in trees, in women, in men, in sex, in love and in hate.

Wherever a human walks, traces of poetry can be found.

Poetry changes the world, bad poetry like this one included, because the world is poetry.