6 października 2012
The Death Of Poetry, The Death Of Me
Oh world! (blah). Poets! What have you become?
Directionless without Bréton´s authority
Obscure like early Rimbaud
museum pieces in the attic
trapped on this plane, marking revolutions
from bored jaded middle-classes.
Alone on a stage with Kevin McCameron
with no one to listen or
pass us by.
Western destruction imminent and passé.
It is only best to speak in love poems
sonnets, and prose of sweet rememberance.
The sun sears asphalt on stop-and-go traffic.
The heat smells not all different from colors
in crowds of faces too unhealthy and beaten
to see all the beautiful things just outside
their frames of mind; characters only spoken to
in old books and ideologies.
The Meaning of life:
To catch a glimpse of the waitress pretending not to notice
the table full of torn notebook pages during happy hour,
but you notice her
and she held your hand in meditations
that very morning.
To teeter on the edge of obscurity because not all hope
has yet been lost. The universe exists in infinite space.
The Bodhisvatta has a pleasant smile, straddling the body
like a dripping wet sweatty naked woman in a blanket,
the fourth dimension hidden by the other three
length height volume.
Poetry has done nothing for me.
War made me fast and violent,
bloodied my knuckes with blistering cigarette burns.
Death made me a man without dreams of
towering cities over lakes and rivers.
Spain made me human, fascinated by
unscripted lives that moved still with time
lacking purpose. Priya taught me love
risk and heartbreak. To love is always best,
To love unconditionally is always better.
God taught me to never give in to astonishment,
to understand what is directly in front, but
can never be seen.
Everything that has been written
or will be written has already been written.
Fear is control, Fearlessness is freedom
We are only theater, extras trying to remember
what it is that we´ve already heard.
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