Cold Blue

Cold blue running across a page
A leaf.
This colour has no brightness and no hope it only knows hunger
Tearing and wetting with Hunger for a warmer flavour
Like a burning revenge, red.
An experiment, purple.
A poisoning, green.
Or an imminent death, yellow.

This colour is on my mind as the strongest colour
The colour of my room.
The colour of my eyes.
The colour of my first crush's kiss.

It is the colour that is jealous of Mediterranean milieu.
Mediterranean acquiescence and contempt for experience.
It watches the soaked plenitude, as out of desperation
And mixed at the point of starvation, when dipped in ink.

It eats, the sun's light, and stays cold.
It is all potential.
Nothing can or will ever happen
As it stays cold blue.
Cold blue, I am writing with.
Cold blue I imbue with me.

Two lonely climbers, bullied to a low place
On a scream.
Dripping across the page.

Because I cannot draw, I cannot create, sweat innocences
Tribulations and hollow victories that mock the libido into action
That detract attention from substance and intoxicate in vapour paper.

No writing!
Blue is a deep colour, being after all the colour of the sea.
Of life, death, starvation.
Black is anti, blue tends into my want.

Black doesn't want.
It's a Zionist it has.
Blue isn't sure of itself.
It hungers to be drenched, to give of itself.
But it knows it can't.
Blue dribbles across the page,
Like a scream, a force, a knife,
Drawn from my mouth, by calcinate teeth
Dense from mucky gums
From electric synapticism
Blue sparks
This draws out the page.
This empties out the page.
And calls it deeper,
An infinite pitiful, potential
To rejoin
An ocean, not a land.

A source,
A spring
A delightful pump.
Pumping out a story
Kneading the coloured blood
Of the leaf, the tree, the human weeping.