Eeva Maria Karhunen

What is the difference of this story to a song: the pleasure of being perfect and perfectly vain has no excuse to the promise: promising only more. There's no light in the superficial, no glory in the tainted and silent mute: the wishes of wanting you, lusting like a scandal over every step so very new to the want, quiet like a kiss, in a broken night of a morning that makes you want to flee, like the street has no end, the platforms do take away nothing anymore than the clean sheets I wear like a ball gown once the cigarettes are over and there's no white shirt. I know you love your ex more than you can say, that you are hooked on my attention and sex and that it won't feel the same: even if hands make love the words might not meet, when the tongue is in depth in my poetry, reading over the line over the line over the line like pages would dissolve to the language, more and more, by each whisper and night and warning the tabloids cling a half a word, making a noise through the silent walls of roadsides of no home.


The crying never ends. The solemn tears have no home: only the temporary

reservates, motels, hotels and hostel doors for the stray and the kind.

Slaving the damaged road and not yet beaten up rainfall is no stranger

once learning to hear every whisper, the undertone, in the harbours that have no   no song.

The cities have losses of battle, not the war in the end: the new beginnings are thriving from
               disappointing the pretty handsome,

smogged by hope and passion, love, the confusion of the rhythm sets none to ease,

hiding away the coy moments of yearning the roads lead to, in no need, roads shut down,
               blocked from noise, leaving empty plazas of wanting and lusting in cities resenting

the few private memories of insecurities on the drone blackened air

in no harbour other than the one in the star polluted night skies,

I want the sex, letting go lone the traveling   stroked and pulled down the spine of the ethics

of the story, not the justice of the necks curving up, disappearing,

in the lost battles of the jealousy, heart that heart themselves in like no morning other,

would prove the existence and mourning over the ends

each night the same: a warning of the tomorrow that ends with the luggage by the door,

with check-in to the seas for me and the tears that burn like the razor that is to scar.

Eeva Maria Karhunen is an art insider, poet and a photography model working freelance from Europe in film and literature. She writes that the two poems above were inspired by singer-songwriter John Legend.
previous page     contents     next page


Post a Comment

<< Home