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On Humming

But you know the darkest hour always comes before the dawn (CSN playing in the background of my thoughts)

As I quote Woodstock legends 50 years later — because everything in my time is just too ephemeral to be remembered five years from now — I’m quoting an old song with no words, just because the words have been used to damage the culture those legends built up

_Hm hm hm la la la la _

Yet, I commit to the words, because life is a tunnel, when you find yourself on an impasse, You must go back through exactly what you’ve been doing So, if the words have turned against us, words are the only way back to the stage of delight

In a recent conversation with J.P Vianini about something I no longer recall, (I remembered it later - it was about the girl who told me inteligent people are lonely) He said

“The day I married poetry, my maid of honour told me…”

He was talking about my last achievement. I had just decided to marry poetry, after the end of my last failed romance — which was still ongoing for lack of words and hot weather without rain

I made that sentence a poetry prompt for when I run out of words and keep just humming on untuned Searching for the frequency of love through old tunes in the Spiritus Mundi Like now

I thought I had found my way back to the empyrean with that man He inspired me, he was my Dante. I was Venus and the Poet. Because he made me his Venus Which was Poetry to my love-making And I loved his lack of finesse on that matter — balance is everything

But time had gone by and with us, it wasn’t the conventional sparkle that faded (Believe me, that one was the only thing that never faded) But our connection started to disappear, he lead me to the circles of Paradise And made the hell out of our lives He left me there above somehow, I was still a muse. But he couldn’t reach me

And when, after 10 years, I found my way back to my idea of (coding the sound as I like to trope) writing a book, it got worse I was told my creativity was too much to handle and exhaustively time demanding

Although I never said ‘no’ to him, I believe his concern was the possibility of Poetry keeping me from my female deeds, Such as staying at the bottom, with no words, humming tenderly on his ear So maybe I could get a kiss in the forehead in the end

(Alright, I’m just being mean; the previous two lines kind of turned me on)

I don’t mind playing Eve. And I’m not saying that every man is the same. But he went from a Baudelairean Dante lost in the Underworld to Adam overnight I don’t mind this imagery, but I really prefer the version of the story which Lilith escapes and creates a sea of demons

I bet he still thinks he is in the Garden of Eden. A sleeping sheep

For me, it’s been a long time gone. I’m over 369 thousand words in my journey to wording songs with no words And while poetry is the nine — around and unchanging The past and future men are the three to my six The yin to my yang They come and go and I write them away When I become grey.

The day I married poetry, My maid of honour asked me about this whole breakup She said she saw that happen before I don’t blame her I admit it happened before, it did. I said I would never go back and I did.

She asked me: What makes this time different? I didn’t answer at that time I didn’t know

And I still don’t know. But I changed the locks and started to write this book

And when I invoked the mother of (demons) muses to be the ceremonialist The following thought occurred to me:

Too bad he couldn’t be here to marry me to poetry — the partner I call dibs on for eternity— And become my lover from then on

But when you end up on a honey trap like that, with no words left to say, You just hum songs with no words and expect the words to sing along

Written on 30th September 2021