Prison and ghosts

" You're beautiful, like a May fly." Ernest Hemingway

Whether I`m crawling or resigning,
Whether your heart drops its clutches into a frail glazier,
Whether tears migrate into centenary fiddle-sticks or desert picture,
Whether it is myself I see,
Whether it is your voice I miss,
I`m grinning, I`m entertaining,
Organs pumping heaps of reddish blood
Poured onto your desiring fingers,
Palm trees coiling marble teeth,
Refreshing aer of menthe embrace,
Shivering shadows rattling into the blind bulb.
                Ghosts covered with flashing laughter…
                They fling joy, drizzle spots – steaming , leaning on my chair…
Slumber hallucination, but colours have not faded away,
Frozen pleasure and observing euphoria,
World of gorgeous senses, 
                    heaps of men,
                bunch of scenes,
                plenty of props.
                  All touching greedily…