Here you are, my enemy, my friend,
again here, as you never left
the strange, familiar
cliff-edge of existing,
with vision compelled
into an abyss,
that powerlessly,
will dismiss
both time and timeless,
as if it never was
and never ought to be,
(you see).
Some call you Death, my enemy, my friend.
Footing a self, out of sight, no mind,
but enemy friend, lover, betrayer, wise man,
goddess and deadly secret, blind
to fools and the disillusioned night,
some don’t call you
any thing at all.
(Can I touch you?
No. In touch, I’m undermined).
I forget you never, ever leave,
and here you are, enemy, friend
as dust of form flies nowhere
in orgasmic torrents of
whatever it never was
nor ever will be.
And here, in this silent womb alone,
thrown again forsaken
in a wilderness of belief,
notice the relief,
as if
(behind this,
grand universal, time-space
curtain of the whole
gravitational misdemeanour),
we were always waiting
for this bodily, sweating, needing
task of life to cease
so freedom can breath in peace
in no time now, for real.
Georgi Y. Johnson
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