the trial-19.06.17

*artwork- via miscellaneoushi.com

יער מפחיד

 

Tiny seed of longing

Was planted in me when I was two.

I’ve never been asked for a permission

But nevertheless

I’ve taken care of it relentlessly

Fostering it into monstrosity

Letting it

Weave its branches into every supple cell of mine

To keep me buried under

An unrestrainable jungle of thoughts

To sentence me to an infinite

Trial

picking a scab-14.01.15

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*artwork- “wound” by pejac via artcollectorz.com

 

When I pick a scab,

Tiny echo of ache,

What do I wish to feel?

Quite simple.

To feel.

It’s yearning for yearning.

An infinite plowing through barren fields

Of terrain so hard and  frozen.

Burnt.

Forsaken.

Orphaned.

No woman’s land.

My enslavement to pain

Never loosens its grip.

Devout hostage to sour lump in my throat, I am.

Won’t ever spit out

Won’t ever push in.

That’s right.  For

Being tormented is of rarest value.

26-18.7.11

*artwork-via www.houzz.com

contemporary-artwork

he was the lamb wishing to be the shark,
years of struggling, and he did get there, but i never came,
trying to get rid of myself.
given to the hands of curiosity with nothing to remember
but this empty street and deserted man,
it was easy.
playing in the same team with my own nature, we spent
meaningless hours sprinkled with random talking about books.
suddenly, it occurred that he was so near,
and for almost a year i felt these warm words
followed by cold drops of closeness.
twice i was a coward:
being colorblind, i waited for so long to share, but
he was the one who took my colors, giving none back.
already colorless, i was fleeing
and he let me taste this black and white soup,
it tasted like happiness.
into the wilderness, i got lost, and fell down ,slithered, for
he was the snake.
and he was the snail.
and again i was sinking into the goo i wished to produce,
even though on that moment he was sticky and sweet and melting like sugar.
soon on a night of exhilaration i was the one to hold his hand on a way home,
and we laughed.
then he was beautiful, tearing my skirt he wore, so frozen and distant, i felt.
so that i needed to escape into engineered world of scheduling
and brushing the teeth after every meal, it couldn’t last.
on the roof top we drank sour wine and spilled out well known secrets,
he knew how to surprise my feet and tickle my heart.
i wanted my heart un-ticklish, but it refused to obey, because
he was so upright, and so small, and so much larger than i could ever imagine
or bare, so i let go.
just to see that he was a red head pirate,
fighting his own demons, he could not fight those mine.
on that moment he became roman, forever turning jerusalem into sanctuary.
i got caught up and it all turned into a big mash with a guitar music dressing.
i needed to breath, so now he was showing me his paintings
and i was breath(ing)less again.
that’s why he was young and his hair was big, he played saxophone
during nights and i was smiling.
wearing beautiful dress, and smelling like me and like everyone, i was talking
to him in the dark, and my lips were touching his skin.
i was hiding in holy jerusalem, when he came again, and
took me into his pre-planned world of tomorrow,
we never celebrated the moment.
so i ran away, and then he was worshiping Buddha and climbed mountains,
while i was sad. 

so he came straight from his own reality holding that mirror. he wanted to pull me in, i preferred to fade away.
into what used to be sacred jerusalem,
but only closer to the polluted sea.
all of a sudden, i was near holy heights again:
he was another lamb, hiding in god’s lion skin,
digging out secrets buried in earth,
so delicate and warm, he was,
i thought i can breath for real,
but i was suffocating until i managed to leave.
for long nights i waited for the moment when i could go back dancing
on my own,
and barefoot bear put me under the spotlight and  into the game.
satan was lurking just around the corner, making illusive southern desert look like luxurious oasis, it hurt deliciously.
so i chose to try out north,
the heat was strikingly immense,
but little black eyed demon was as cold as marble.

dedicated to momi vaknin, a man who creates bread-16.07.11

*artwork-“le regret” by charbel samuel aoun

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

 

another kind eyes decorated with a smile
to celebrate all the good things
that are out there,
made all the bad things that are in me
rise. shamelessly.
enclosed in my own self
i laugh out loudly
waking up all the demons,
and scaring off all the angels,
who guard no more.
i laugh out loudly,
watching loads of instances
of choices that were never made
dancing, swirling with the dust
of chances that were never taken.

the shadow of nicole and marrast-04.02.11

*artwork-  “impostor” by leslie ann o’dell via leslieannodell.com

smallimposter_leslieannodell

being displeased
tiny bug bites within
feeds on disappointment
eats frozen invoiced words
wormish sleeky tales
of illusions that won’t ever bring light
unfriendly friends
sly enemies
hello, i say
when they come so close
that i can touch with my bare hands
feel through steely hearts
look into their eyes
inhale their lies
this stream of  hollow promises
destined to die quietly
but my stomach
holds hope, in the farthest rooms
of the reddish matter
that’s called intestines
i like to show it off
and to pretend
being the fair one.

julio cortazar. on jazz-26.01.10

*artwork- “relativity ” by m.c. escher via blogs.cornell.edu

escher-relativity-lg-20hs3r4

 

i did forget.
beloved  Cortazar, how funny does it work.
three lines by genius and it became so vivid…that chilly summer night in holy city.
i wear long brown dress
so dark and infinite to match the mood we share
we slowly walk, with nothing more to say
so miserably lost
two accidental strangers
then
the shelter of a bar, protecting sounds of jazz
i hide my tears in smile
you are unmercifully distanti sipped the shame. and swallowed.

and now, forever since,
i wish i could replay
the shelter of a bar, protecting sounds of jazz
while you fake fascination with the act
and as we wait for the distracting substance,
i put my hand on yours, excuse myself, get up
and leave.

how powerful it seems. now.

for my own good-6.01.10

*artwork- view of the exhibition “Powerless Structures” at Tel Aviv Museum of Art

elmgreen_et_dragset_view-of-the-exhibition-powerless-structures-at-tel-aviv-museum-of-art-tel-aviv-israel-2016_11117_1_w800_195235

what was i
when was i
one of these …imprisoned on
white islands of metal solitude
on each – imperfect youth
so early broken, nearly left
in it together
so painfully alone.

perverted arc,
“it’s for your own good”,
they said
and others – silent,
impotent
was i
tied and shaved,
and waiting…

 

prison-1.01.10

*artwork- “anguish” by darren johnson via saatchiart.com

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between third cup of coffee and unimaginary anguish
i try to escape from my own prison
words echoing in my room
said and unsaid
as i walk around, lost in my own fortress
not recognizing this space,
i am a stranger
to my own thoughts, so familiar, so

i pushed out and away,
and now, left in my beloved solitude
i am full of hatred
that can not find its way to

me or you,
all itchy
i wish to scratch you out
or
to leave this incapable pale skin
and find a new place
to contain my rusty world of

————————————-
scared baby with a head shaved
and legs tied to a bed that is everything
scared baby, that waits for a savior to come
in sterile room, with windows ever closed
and smell of lost hope
where every minute is an eternity
and every touch is love deprived

————————————-

happy new year-31.12.09

*artwork- “red couple dance” by naxart studio via fineartamerica.com

red-couple-dance-irina-march

still.
walled in comforting fears
my fruitful quest for rejection
won’t stop. i’d not give up
on you
so sweet, slap after slap
every word tastes like leather belt on my skin
leaving red marks that i collect and keep
carefully cataloged
and maintain them thoroughly.

we move, altering egos of cowardice.
my faceless men
your nameless women,
an endless fuel for
our dance of hurt and solace.

of imminently shifting tides-10.12.09

2017-01-07-15-01-43

*artwork- drawing by kosta gurgov

deputed beggar
spotless junky
getting no share.
i am gone.

hungered by anger
stabbed with self pity
embedded by excluding blame
again, i am being tortured
while glue-like minutes drip away

that’s who i am
unheeded child,
still waiting, miserably restless,
for ever evanescent mom.

Greek tragedy…
predestined rocking…
oh, mother, is there any good in talking
(of imminently shifting tides?)