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

fir trees of my years-30.06.15

*artwork- via pintrest.com

e563d08e51ac6640de3bad953507cf9b

 

I’ve gone astray

Amongst the fir trees of my years

Under cold snows

Relived

During sweaty summer evenings.

I’ve failed to tie a string

Or  leave a bread crumbs trail

So I can find my way back

(36 years ago)

When I slipped into this world

And maybe then was happy.

 

Invariably, i am

( a sad little girl- an angsty adolescent-an all accepting woman)

Just looking for a place,

One guarded and secure,

To keep my hopes.

 

cold home-13.01.11

*artwork-“embrace” by egon schiele

embrace

will i ever conquer the vibrant?

Caledonian sky was beautiful
sometimes i could feel free
and scared no more
but here i go, cold home
that feels alien
i’ve lost track of time
in my own 2.5 rooms
where i walk with my eyes closed at nights,
touching guidelines of walls.
my hands are different.
every piece of my body is unpleasantly new
though i am not renewed, tired.
may be this is the sense of freedom
freedom-like dungeon
underneath changing skies,
the city was vicious and i needed (to)
revenge.

i wonder what was it?
how lonely i felt embraced by the loved one.
how lonely my loved one has probably felt.

roads-13.09.10

*artwork- “confusion” by roswita szyszka via  dart.fine-art.co

while  married to roads,
of microscopic (barely) homeland,
i’ve been around and across.
same scenery all over.
relentless skies.
brown growth.
sea is on my left. hopelessness- on right.
forever with my eyes closed
i am to hear someone else’s music,
and feel a stranger’s elbow
and smell a piercing sweat.

and now, again i’m lost?
these ways are alien.
i am at the crossroads,
same ruthless sky and rusty growth.
still. location is unclear.

you drive. your hand rests on my knee
together. we are so lost together
these roads divide and split,
so threatening, and we
we are bemused again.
you don’t know what to say

and my words die inside so i keep silent.

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.

ilan-3.01.10

*artwork-“Further up, further In” by sol kjøk via galleriramfjord.net

i287104489215852502-_szw360h1280_

i do not care. you can be anyone
when i close my eyes i do not feel
the difference.
eager to be held
and being lied to.
i close my eyes. you can be anyone
do not infect the air with consonants and vowels
the only lie i believe in is your hands
with eyes closed, they feel the same.
when you came to rescue me
the other night, i was glad
but it was not you i was waiting for.
and when you kissed my mouth,
smeared crowd of strangers around us,
i was not kissing you back.
and when i laid in that bed,
all frozen and burning,
it was not your stomach pressed against my spine.

my hair still smells like 1000 cigarettes
and my bed still have the imprint of
another illusion,
but it is your face i do not remember.
again.

on my way home-23.12.09

*artwork-“sad melody of a street performer” by yuri kodimer via imgrum.net

13767640_1767616430152178_1124067730_n

as i walk home,
shaking off their faces, stories, their smell and fear,
i reconnect
with my own neglected for 6.5 hours being
i lift up my eyes, “vintage” buildings for
bohemian (and) junkies.
sky is never gentle, with homeless me,
with ever homeless them.
concrete stairs, i learned to breath quietly
this hill is a loving enemy.
what do they feel leaving my room?
leaving me to watch their deepest secrets
like i watch this drying laundry on Bauhaus remnants.
on my way home.

transparent like the powder i wore-13.12.09

2017-01-07-16-51-24

transparent like the powder i wore
i felt
on Thursday

on Friday, being reclusive nomad,
pushing aside all smart ass reasons, i
left  my fortress home, for us
this hour and a half means nothing
along the shoreline, through the rain
oh, fast as dreaming,
i traveled. excited like this sea
and it was storming

and then. you are the shelter

Saturday morning.
too good to bare,
so
i begin to question

the eyes are all of a sudden moist
you’re comfortless. thus madly tender.
the girl is coming. more real than real.
she’ll clean your mess.
she did in august.
i do not hate her.
i pity her for
she is as hostage here as i am

i smell like you and sex
and she is present, watching
soon it’s her turn

i want to throw up. i am nowhere
still have no place.
another man is out there.
he has some room for me. he waits
while i deceive with you.
oh, how romantic.
it’s sickening.
so you get strength to throw up
for that, i am impaired
homeless
i don’t believe you
when you say my name

i am the snake, remember?
you are the one who charms
i am there only when you are not
oh, you kiss the gentlest when you know i am hurt

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?)

bustan-9.12.09

2017-01-07-13-47-39

 

and once again i lost myself
floating astray inside this tempest.
bustan – the garden of carmel-
is where gutless drawn for shelter.
i watched them,
hearing no sounds.
forever children
in their 30-s.
my bare feet were reminiscing
forgotten stings of wooden dance floor.
obstructed crowd of “enlightened”
and me, among them,
feeling awkward.
my frozen fingers were caressing
cheap glass of substance filled with sadness.
thus, hostile body went on mourning
over once present sparkle.

while absent, yet, i was observing
these aging girls, mindlessly dancing.
i choked on envy, realizing,
that have you been here without me,
you could have taken any of them.