Furious shots, ice cream dollops, lovely renegades.
Do you think I loved you? Hell, yes I did. The sweet, sour, lime, butter melting on cherries,
the icy toppings, love was grand or evil. A way to deliverance or trapped doors from which there is no
respite. The love kissed, the molten saliva, the smell was same for his and my saliva. Well, I had thought it
might differ, but no, it didn’t. I was wrong like any other time when I fancy it won’t rain and don’t carry the
umbrella or when I try to walk on the rail on my pointy heels or when I smell the flowers sneezing out,
forgetting my allergy all the way. Now the world believes in love so strongly that an answer to an
unrequited love is always a love again.
Hell, yeah, beholding out of heavens when the master said about one man and one woman, he must have
known, only one to know what I felt or many others did while being burnt on stakes, murdered in cold blood.
The love ruled and the love alone can fill the gap lovelessness can create but which stuff says I have to
love again, the man with the Java scripted name, was he not enough? If enough not he is, to fill the hole,
enough is not the fact that he hides behind a pole, only too obvious he doesn’t love me, but then loving
him has given me strength like no other duck, rooster or goat or fish even when love was just a name.
Love that is now, is love for ever since it was not my destination ever, it was a platform for me to rest a
bit, a way to ope my eyes and see the world more, but as long as he lives, faded memories are just words
of madness spoken by the philandering world which knows not the fact that love once can alone fill a gap,
unrequited or requited doesn’t matter for those who have lives of their own and peace in the end…peace
by the mountain, peace by the chants.
The all soothing, benumbing love is not up for complaints. It is to believe that if there is a few that can be
called close to God it might be love of good sort. The good sort familiarised and plagiarised by the world
is what makes it a chance to live beyond the name of Christ, as they say for fri-ends or if-ends.
The love whose definition is not circumscribed by the dictionaries of the world or even by the most
ordinarily sophisticated machinery Go-ogle.
Sometimes, we live to fend ourselves and fend for others, on other times, we are fended by others. The
History of love is bloodied and blood shed creates fears, specifying clear proclivity to lust perhaps. Love
has been murdered long. Do we take it as a sign to live loveless or love beyond the bounds of lust called
love lust confused as lust by the unholy and love by the holy barely seeing they are none in each other’s
The trochety hockety drokety willisome wily wey woe will wonder wounded worthy wings wistful whisking wreath wrung wrought wondrous winds.