Letter to my friend Julienne
Catherine, Clarabella, Electra, Jennifer, Rachel, Esther,
do not like me, I cannot hold on anything such I am wobbly,
But Julienne, you are not to love.
You are a recipient of too many vowels,
your hair is like a torch under the sun
and, even more, you sympathise with the enemies.
You know how it is in times of war
sitting in trenches eating cans of beans.
But you allure us, Julienne.
And where can we possibly go?
We should not dare.
Sighing heavily because of a rich meal on a lotus field
I tried to be out of reach from you, my limby friend.
Backpacking in Asia for dry months, I was coerced into eating little and skipped the yoga and missed the weight training that preps my body so beautifully as you liked to depose on it, Julienne.
When I was back in this Europe of our grandfathers that crumbles, I stared at dusty pages.
You were jealous like a hyena imagining encounters with ladies of high maintenance.
But I was trying to loosen you from me, and you pushed the fact how easygoing you are, in the acceptance of all sorts of foods till the stem of the humble vegetable. As I had asked you to slurp a bowl of liquid gold!
Why did you haunt my footsteps from Berlin to Paris with that caustic font on your letters? I had rather conceited in you a hare leaping in these burrows of female empowerment.
I said: I refrain, I want her to find the time for new lovers. I push her into abandonment. She, now enraged, may find the strength to disfigure my icon.
But you are chained to me because I got no face or too many, so you can just concentrate on the project of your loving.
I must possibly turn down the role of robin in this cooing relation. Believe me, I put on weight recently and I can no longer ascender with buckets of blossoms the sky to ignite the spring and release cherries on you (it's well documented how wolfish you get with red).
You see? I cannot climb on the steeple to steal the rope from the eyes of the garrulous priest who used to spy when we had that loving in the hay. And by the time he torn the bells to call the villagers to collect themselves in your cortege, you almost quest them as spectators.
You found new things about yourself, though, all the way through, I was an unsaddled horse with a big head. It was always about me… Me on the pony, me by the canal, me in the Louvres, me on the gondola. I didn't tender you, Julienne. I was an unpleasant gardener fetching weed on the grave of my ancestors. While, you had in you, recalls on renaissance and imported fragrances. Madonna with Child, Julienne.
My Julienne was the pietas, the weeping willow, outgrown,… there, in my driveway to soak my coat. Because you were obsessed with winter, keeping saying: winter is coming!
That likeness for long night, shivering bones, hugging mouths.
You know there are people with jags like dogs, protruding like tanks charging disused buildings. They are the impossible kissers. But I analyse my selfies and I know you fancied my convex profile which is good at receiving the others…. Smooch….. Ominous disheartened acceptance.
Remember when you caught me up with the ballerina and I thought it over. Now this relationship is gonna burst like a saccharine bubble. With patience and grace I will start a new life and I justify it as an instance. Better for her, I said. Eventually the serpent ( Julienne) in this garden of English apples will permute into moth and make way to other, of low birth, more fitting to my vices.
But you were eager to stay with me in guilt. And you hedged me (a bull). And you made a daughter out of me when I was asleep in the Marbella's August and then you flew.
Seven years of melancholy have passed, please return, Julienne. Bring the hedges and, more, nail me to the fence.
Knot my groins, spike my pints and sedate my mind not educated enough to solitude.
You are so languid, Julienne!