My Golden

 
There is a woman currently in psychiatric ward number nineteen hun
dead and famished is her heart, her prostituted heart, the cardiac ar
rangement that take place between patron and prostitute, that trans
vestite in her mind, the sins she should never be guilty of, endless mir
age of miracles and the many years back upon which she gazed

I tell you -

A hundred cardiac arrests will not transgress the mirror of the schizo

She is a friend from the bitter and grey winters of northern Asia, ambi
tious and determined to survive, born with a delicate meticulous mind
less wary of the realities that imprison the majority of humanity's gen
eulogising the philosophers mostly Germans yet suspicious of intelle
gentians that heal misinterpretations unbearable to the gazer

It seems -

Ambivalence comes from excessive mindreading without the generosity of intellection

But I love her and her grande horizontale mind despite the petty quag
miration between us numerous misinterpretations of poems written with
holding kindness between gritting teeth, is kindness worth its weight in
ingots that we tenaciously cling to it like middle-class yuppies profess
tering in their goods and chattels?

Rise from the quagmire within, my golden, my Fescennine.


----
'Self-portrait with brush' by Zinaida Serebriakova (1884 - 1967)