Friendship is not collection of hearts but a selection of hearts. All friends is not good; good friends are very few, which include you.
Everyone should have a friend like you. You are so much fun to be with. And you are such a good person. You make me laugh, and touch my heart with your kindness. You have a wonderful ability to know when to offer advice, and when to sit in quiet support. Time after time. You've come to my rescue. And brightened so many. I've realized how fortunate to have a friend like you.
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keep smiling and spreading happiness all over
it’s autumn in Dreamland
I walk on the royal scarlet, on the quiet fire of the wet dead leaves. It is the colour I like now. The dear, soft fire, not burning, not hurting, but warming like embers of a campfire in July night. As though soft hands take your heart, your mind, and warm them. No sadness. No melancholy. Only the gentle, soft warmth. As though you are under the plaid. Breath, smell, tenderness of the velvety touches, half-whisper, and absence of the rest world. What if it’s the real world?
One more nameless autumn;
October betrays you again
now with the rain
now with a glimpse of the sunlight.
The autumn gives you away.
You are tired bloody.
Only the bared teeth of November come next.
It’s an error…
(October, 2006)
While going through the blackthorns
and tearing your heart in to pieces
you are looking for a road.
The bitter rain. And a white bleak melancholy comes next,
as well as the black silence
with the icy flowers ringing in the wind.
But you are waiting for dawn,
when in the cold morning mist,
in the emerald freshness,
in the splashes of the sunlight
you’ll be able to breathe again.
(November, 2006)
mauve mavis
Literature is not a substitute for love. Love is a substitute for literature, if you like. And yet literature is, let's face it, far more reliable than a man or a woman. So forget love, I'd rather fall in the ocean of literature.
Reading a book I learn of ten books more which I have to read. Actually, my literature of choice is no more than one tenth of the whole ocean of literature. There is another one tenth that I’d like to read but have no access to (it’s not money), for example, some works on ancient history in English, such as Ben Pastor's The Water Thief, Steven Saylor’s historical novel Roma, Sex Lives of the Roman Emperors by Nigel Cawthorn.
Not to look at a face, not to look at a watch, not to run, not to keep silence, not to beg, not to be ill, not to cure and not to believe in a success. Not to surrender. Not to die. Not for everyone.
I try to write something like poems from time to time.
*The Boy*
May be he was born by the sun
that goes under into the purple sea?
May be he was born by the purple waters
that merges with the purple sky?
Or he was born by the sky
saying good-bye to the sun
that caresses the lonely cloud.
Or he was born by the cloud
that keeps the scarlet reflection
and sadly looks at the sun
that dies in the ocean,
being reborn again and again.
(September, 2006)
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*Imagery*
To draw black glass,
to play the hubris and sublime,
to paint with chalk of words
the expanse over…
The moon over the cloud,
like a japonerie,
will strike upon night verses.
Through the glass
of dark imagery
ache overtakes.
The gambler’s time has come.
Still pillars.
Towards Zero.
Amen.
(September, 2007)
*Theatres Des Vampires
In the depths of the stage,
may candles melt at midnight,
and the swaying curtain opens
the pictures of night dreams--
all is for you…
Belle de Jour
My so-called poems belaud and hymn Night and Mystical Evening Twilight, which oddly enough if to take into consideration the fact that usually my eyelids are heavy with sleep soon after seven in the evening and I get up at dawn, between 4 and 6 o’clock. A nightlong I sleep serenely and can’t see it or what’s going on by night, and the morning hours I spend surfing the Internet, having coffee and satisfying my morning hunger in a small way (the morning hunger is a good sign, by the way). But I enjoy writing dark-themed poetry, though without its usual Gothic admiring death. In the prime of life I stepped into the world of literature, and vampire stories or a Hitchcockian cameo were as bedtime tales for me. To write a good detective story is almost all I want, and at the same time I’d like all the rest my works to take the form of homage to Wilde and other aesthetes. More than once I called myself an aesthete in this blog--indeed I am, yet that is right just partly, because a true aesthete can be a man; as for females, like children or beautiful animals they may only serve aestheticism, the aesthetes or an aesthete.
In the magic coolness of the air a little golden leaf is spinning
in its last dance of the year, in its last dance of feeling.
It is softly melting to the ground a little piece of autumn gold,
soon it is to be forgotten and never to be found.
Its dauntless soul now is lost a little sun-like yellow spot,
its life and battles that it fought all just to become a mere ghost.
But in the arms of the quiet wind a little son of spring,
he doesn't care what life has been, for in the heart he's evergreen.
“Pshaw! It’s not original”.
“I know. It’s because I am an ordinary person”.
“Do you think what you write is interesting to anybody?”
“Well, that’s interesting to me first of all. All the rest people’s opinion concerns me as far as the people interest me”.
humor
“I was told there are four originals of Black Square by Malevich. Is it true?”
The Guide: “Yes, it’s true. In fact, Malevich painted ten originals, just six of them he couldn’t paint in the proper way”. 
quotation
The number of breaths you take doesn't count life--but by the moments that take your breath away.
the devotion to something afar…as always
“I, Tiresias, have presuffered all,” he sobbed to them from the Venetian arches--
“Enacted on this same d-divan or b-bed,
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the l-l-lowest of the dead. . .”
And then, stepping lightly into the room, “How I have surprised them! All boatmen are Grace Darlings to me.”
We sat on sipping Cointreau while the mildest and most detached of the Etonians sang "Home they brought Her warrior dead" to his own accompaniment on the harmonium.
It was four o'clock before we broke up.
Anthony Blanche was the first to go. He took formal and complimentary leave of each of us in turn. To Sebastian he said: "My dear, I should like to stick you full of barbed arrows like a p-p-pin-cushion," and to me: "I think it's perfectly brilliant of Sebastian to have discovered you. Where do you lurk? I shall come down your burrow and ch-chiwy you out like an old st-t-toat."--(Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh)
I’m not like he, I’m other; I’m not about to come down anybody's burrow and chiwy anybody out like an old stoat--and he will do it, for sure, the man who has a little cloven hoof (idiom)--and I admire him. While Charles Ryder and Sebastian Flyte languish and reflect: to love or not to love--he lives.
Brideshead Revisited (1981) is an engaging, brilliantly written and superbly directed film, evocative, funny, suspenseful and ultimately moving.
And my blogging has come to a standstill: I have no a new interesting idea for a new well-knit essay. Though I have one idea: to write a review for a certain celebrity. But I can’t write reviews, so all I can do for the man is to dedicate several good poems to him (not mine). Who is he? He is the most charming American actor, most handsome young man Billy Brandt. ICQ--now I seek you, Billy Brandt fans! What brought me to the gay porn websites? Three years and a half ago I bought the computer for some research, and as a result I found myself at the yahoogroup, dedicated to the god Antinous who is my god now. For 3 years I’ve been a member of the group, and it was a great experience to me; I as though spent 3 years at a good American college. Everyone was nice to me there; I enjoyed knowing someone else loves Antinous and not me alone; Antinous is the only beautiful man, who I’m not jealous of: the more humans love him the better. Recently I’ve left the group (there was a reason about which I can tell anyone who wanted to know of it). We in the group or rather some of us were fascinated with an idea of searching for Antinous in the real, modern day life around us; and, let’s say, we succeeded in it, for example, we know that there is a certain celebrity in the world, the young beautiful man who bears a sticking resemblance to the adult Antinous. In my research on male beauty on the Net I've discovered some gay porn sites. Visiting the website that doesn't exist any more I was impressed so much, and I fell in love with Billy Brandt’s photos. He is beautiful; his body makes worship it. He is a new Antinous or at least he was at the age of twenty. For, in fact, the god Antinous, the latest and most beautiful of ancient gods can be regarded as the first Magazine Model and most famous model of male beauty of antiquity. We all in the group loved him, his beauty, his body, his sacred hairstyle, and worshiped him, because he was gay, naked and hot, the god of Death and Ecstasy, Adonis of the Underworld, new Osiris, Antinous Most Fair. I’ll add, the boyish god, he is a god of the Internet in a way, because his religion exists in the cyberspace mainly--perhaps several small communities of the Antinoian pagans (Greco-Roman-Egyptian syncretistic reconstructionists) are in the States, one or two more in Britain, and perhaps that’s all. Oddly enough, the Greco-Roman-Egyptian religion of Antinous exists neither in Italy nor in Greece nor in Egypt now. It seems to be a Californian new religion. But I digress… Although I never saw Billy Brandt movies but I am his fan, and I’d like to meet his fans who saw the movies, and who could contribute in promotion of his name and beauty, writing a superb review on the movies and publishing it on the Net.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Billy_Brandt
http://us.imdb.com/name/nm1133585/
event in October
OCTOBER 16--Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in 1854.
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Read the vampire story. Recently I tried to find the text of THE TRUE STORY OF A VAMPIRE a.k.a. The Sad Story of a Vampire by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock on the Net, but in vain, and now my blog seems to be the only source of the story within everyone’s reach:
