swooned by candles

other than me,

i am sure one of them is telling the truth

the candles echo the seams of my shit

and the smoke, viciously talks about

new life into my language.

darkness everywhere.  just mosquitoes

and the darkness and the spoken typhoon

looping hither and thither

tonight.  the night of restored noises

coming from the jaluses, from the neighboring dogs

restoring the little joys of life

upon their magnified enemy – the black night,

the extension of cadaverous thoughts

boxed here and there,

springing out, the candles flicking their last,

the mermaid smoke reaching the ceiling’s sea of whiteness

engulfing my little universe

and its lies.  the children of the rain,

of garlic and onions frying,

of Mondays authenticating the real

joy.