(Sound)
My soul summoned me
“I’ll be waiting on the other side”. He seemed like an electric candle in the middle of the ocean: that emerald –green, outcast blinking star, hanging too low and too lone amidst a harsh deep night with no horizon apart from a lingering haze –some neon pollution- where our cities normally stand. There is nothing of them now but their roaringbuzzingrestlessness echoing so distant, so perfectly distilled from within the world’s cold abandoned dysfunctional ventilation system –somewhat like a dying minotaur within the heart of his own maze. Somewhat like the quiet breathing of things unmoved, unnoticed, unharmed and invincible with their ancient abominable solace. I can hear the streets, the electricity, the anguished ruffling of sheets (arms and feet and eyes in couples of two –wide shut, deeply hurt, highly aroused). I can hear the edges of dreams –their faint scraping sound of vain effort- as they are discarded into space (again), into the black hole of human memory.  I can hear and the black momentarily reveals it’s startling, disarming iridescence. Black is iridescent: the metaphysics of color; in their peaceful childish sleep colors linger close to one another. The stars are their drool, and we are their adopted parents –only hoping to know, only hoping to infer from their impersonal passion, what could be ours
I can hear, and at times that only seems to make me all the more alone.
(Touch)
My soul summoned me
“Where are you?” I couldn’t see him anymore, I couldn’t tell where I stand. It seems as though the shore is circular, and I am forever pacing around the sea, or balancing myself on the rim of a broken cosmic teacup no one ever drinks from, -put one foot in front of the other- and each step is of a curve, each step is not quite ‘somewhere’, but not quite of a ‘nowhere’ either. It seems I’ve been left with the traces of things, intricate hopeless spiderwebs flashing in the sun; I can’t put my finger on them, if I fancy myself too great, but if I’m a fly (if I’m to fly!) I am to be consumed. My endeavours are governed by a circular compulsion; they are orbits –eager paths of faith and curiosity: caresses are circular, and so are coins, dances, time and emotions.
I can feel and above all, that makes me realize the need of being felt for.
(Smell)
My soul summoned me
“I ache for you, but we are being kept apart in separate chambers in this vast voiceless universe.” So I am driven from room to drowning room (dungeons, studies and sanctuaries) by the mere implication of a constant impossible gaze that calls for me despite the walls. Only uttering a spell of dusty roses and a windy, densely populated skyline.  Only whispering a scent worn by a perfect stranger. I am compelled to follow these seemingly aimlessly floating trails –these smells- even if more often than not they lead to artificial flowers: they are silken laces blowing away in the air. I grab these hints, I tie them to my fingers –the irrational mnemonics of the yet to be known. Like most collected knowledge: greed.
I can smell a storm, but I can’t smell love truth or deliverance. Yet I can smell, and I am full with the fragrant stuff of yearning.
(Sight)
My soul summoned me
“There is not much time” He said. And I remember a-time when I was three feet tall holding a shell to my ear and the surf was in my head and I had dreams of my own pet ocean –a paradoxical landscape: my room with no walls and yet no exit. And I remember the story of the Titanic (that old tune of sunken violins –the orchestra still playing on the deck). And the jungles of corals in that bright red book about the Great Barrier Reef.  Then  I’m diving deep, holding my breath in cold water, and there I secretly meet with the sullen woman’s youngest son (the one with deep mellow eyes, the one who never broke free). I see the scheme behind the looking glass –“how to dismantle an adolescent bomb”-  and then I see Him again, He’s the bright red line that unwinds from the woman’s waist to the hem of her dress in Renoir’s “Dance at Bougival”, to signify ‘motion’: she looks away from her partner, so as to conceal her pleasure –there was not much time then, but now they have forever to decipher the misunderstanding.
I can see –even in my sleep- but still I’m not by any chance immune to ‘blindness’.
(Taste)
My soul summoned me
“Our only option is to steal some ambrosia” He said, “for hunger and scarcity are our greatest opponents, and our greatest mentors”. He said “let’s steal a kiss shall we?”
I have tasted the warm milk of life and I pray the hunger may never leave me.