a childish journal

hello!

smiling, i woke,
and,
gleefully, i played,
and,
hopefully, i cried,
and,
afraid, i wrote,
but,
happily, i read,
but,
shamefully, i’d lied,
but,
sighing, i slept,
then,
smiling, i woke.

goodbye!

a blossom of fire

flicker – flicker – little fire,
kindle my spirit of ire;
to this son’s utter night,
cast your flame and light,
then burn the seeds of my plight!

gravity of indited life

where does the russian wander now?
is the illustrated man still alive?
what happened to the cat in the rain?
who keeps an eye on what writer creates?

a hoax, the act of reading is,
full of trickery, debauchery and untruth.
it tells the one with the mind,
that hers is the word of God;

unluckily, it belongs to the fraud:
first, he sets the rules,
sometimes, resurrects the dead,
yet always, brings them death,
as is his wish.

the fraud rules supreme, ever,
plainly, the minded-one is not so cle'er.
with the carcasses of the unsung past,
the two trouble-makers, they toyed, together.

yet the day will come for the dead
whom they left in their lettered abyss,
then the pages will choke them with their calcified limbs,
saying: will we come to life only when you set eyes on us?

no! no! there is no triad!
i will not share their sins, myriad!
i did not create anyone to eternally wander,
nor did i kill for my own blunder.

but the dead did not listen to the beggary:
the russian scholar broke her neck.
the illustrated man stabbed him at the back.
and the cat in the rain clawed out my eyes, without leaving a fleck.

now, these are the lines flowing out my hands,
draining my blind sockets, in deceased lands;
now, begins, the gathering,
and one of my associates, whispers, unceasing:

in your mind,
in your mind,
it all goes down,
in your mind.

the night of the mad encumbrance

serpent! you, serve and hiss,
now the history begins;
tell us of the fervent whimper,
and the intertwined threads of insanity.

serve and hiss, narrate us your deception,
or, if you prefer, the frivolous fluctuation.
you tricked that man of honour,
and we collaborated with you, with no candor.

to us, you served and hissed,
and him, we willingly wasted.
beguiled and bewitched was he,
and a sum of ten letters.

serve and hiss!
it was you who gave him that acrid armor,
it was you who defied the canon reversed,
and made the night descend.

he served you, unhissing,
unknowing, did merely what you told him,
encumbered by the weight of his soul,
enchanted by the storyteller, you evil ghoul.

at last, the hissing night fell down like eternity,
engulfed his last thread of known sanity.
serpent! how could you do this to him,
maiming his lanced heart within?

so, serve and hiss, cervantes! but do not forget this:
you tried to confine him in a world, cylic,
but a circle and a meridian are no match for the one,
who is the ingenious quick fix of a tic.

living in the orbit of trivial matters

... walking,
wandering,
looking around,
not working,
thinking of your final fight,
avoiding the daily painful light.
the false whirling when you embrace with your lover,
revolving around the same things like a satellite
- and that is not of love -
drinking shitty tea,
rotating,
consuming life,
while carrying the inability to be sad truly,
drinking, just, drinking,
the cliché of sadness;
wagging your legs,
and getting maniacal,
irreversibly.
the ineptness of avoiding stupefying nebulas,
feeling your weight while walking,
you are - still - not working.
realizing that you cannot escape from the orbit,
the inability to decide what is "great" in life,
but being certainly sure about what is "little."
complaining meaninglessly,
deceiving yourself that you are living linearly,
whereas it rotates continuously;
the ineptitude to gather your courage,
the insufficiency of what is gathered,
the banality of insufficiency,
accepting that you are a pig,
conceding that you have no voice to shout, nor scream,
for anything,
for nothing.
the horrible gap between the real words,
and what is coming out of your mouth.
and,
to close that gap,
walking,
wandering,
stopping when you arrive at your starting point,

stop.
look around.
sit somewhere.
and then,
start again;

the orbit never stops.

fourfold

two eyes searching their pair.
two eyes watching their opposite,
two eyes meet the other two,
the others, eagerly waiting.
for the embrace.
now, they are connected.
one of the eyes looks into its counterpart,
the other, eagerly, counters it.
the right of the first pair joins them.
but what is the other one doing, the left?
the left does not know what to do,
it is seeing something, but what?
the right checks the left; no response.
the lid is open, its inhabitant frozen,
the left has left the connection.
the four eyes are seemingly locked, save a two-timer.
this is what happens with the eyes, this is a curse!
a traitor, always, emerges from one of those irises
whether friend or foe,
betrayer is one of the four.

the death of a prickly lamb

(...) ago, i am told by one of my herd,
a crown of a wise man,
was placed on my head
and i could not see it yet.
hearing this, surprised, i,
asked the lamb how and why?

(you know how, you know why
now tell me of your communions, high)

dazzled, i had nothing and this i said akin,
but my words awakened its anger within
lamb's eyes darkened, my soul frightened -
there were no words that could be uttered.
i tried not to tremble, but my eyes gave me away
the lamb looked at me as if i were led astray.

(you are a coward! a coward and a fool!
how long will you use your false carpenter’s rule?)

i was ferocious! in a fit of fury!
how could this lamb be,
the judge of my rule and my jury?
i jumped on it, trying to shut it up,
but, with my hands on the lamb's throat,
it just disdainly laughed!
silence! keep your silence you fraud!
let me speak to myself, and to my god.

(indeed, you will speak to your god,
as long as you keep that crown covered in blood)

what crown? i inquired, again, what blood?
but light in the eyes of the lamb dimmed,
leaving me with my sin, stock.
then i cursed the heavens
and its kingdom which had not arrived,
for they had left me alone with the one i had murdered.
at that moment, a trickle, came down my brow, red,
from the crown of thorns on my head.

28/11/2006

the room

I

last night,

my room, darkly, spoke to me.
i was in my bed, unsleeping but unfree.

it said various things, of both present and past,
i was not ready, wanted to silence it fast.

the room did not comply to my wish,
and continued to speak in freakish.

or so it was to me at first,
because i was alone with my shameful thirst.

yet, as the words of the room poured on me,
my thirst was quenched involuntarily.

the room reminded me my forgotten vanity,
which, i'd thought till then, was my defeated enemy.

II

it said,

who are you to ignore its magnitude?
your sojourn was just a short interlude.

it is the reason of your furious heart beats,
your unquenched thirst, your clenched fists

it led to your destruction countless times,
left you to decay in the devil’s morbid swamps.

mark my words, and mark them well,
or else, i will soon be your hell.

vanity is your macabre enemy,
never to be defeated for eternity.

III

at length,

the room ceased its delivery,
and i was allowed to lay broodily.

yet, its unwavering sentries were still there;
my curtains, engulfing me in a caring sphere.

they were watching and looking after me,
and i was deliriously happy...



...until a hand wakened me suddenly.

27/11/2006

an ode to a vanquished friend

scream! then!
scream and scream!
with your folly's unholy whim!
that whim will put you back in oars
bringing back whips and many oaths

those oaths will be your downfall
fall!
fall!
down and fall!
fall till you meet your deserved end
and it will not be your phoney lover's bed.

hey! do not cling to me.
i will not bear you
nor will i stand you.
'cause as you try to catch me
i do not want to be the only one that can hear you.

you! you hear me!
heed, caution, fare;
do not give me any more despair.
'though i do not lack any flair,
i will not do anything nor care for you,
who,
thinks you are a wild boar
actually nothing but a man of oar.
and a man of oar you shall be
for the fierce folly committed by thee.

thee, i say! to whom that is vanquished and old and past!
there is nothing to make yourself last.
so do not cling to me, nor hope of reaching me;
continue your fall!
down,
down and fall!

there, will be waiting for you, oars of hell,
and oaths of your ghastly smell;
where you will be eternally whipped, dead and buried,
remembered as nothing but a long forgotten nereid.

and.

no more.

screams.

21/11/2006

the hand

in the stillness of time,
i am kept by a hand
with its gnawing paws
and unruly laws.

the hand says it is my friend
and, friend, do not be scared.
but i shriek -again and again,
to no avail and gain.

i and the hand struggle and struggle
like two dancers with a satanic fiddle.
as the dance ends, my will bends
to the fingers on their final stands.

hand! thou love me and protect me,
and i kiss the life in thee;
as if it is my heart beat
and i am thy mercy seat.

14/11/2006

an inquiry into the stage of eudaemonia

indeed, it is essential to find another method of happiness. undeniably and truthfully, the one i am in knowledge of is not exactly beneficial. it is not in any means possible to claim that, at this stage, happiness stimulants such as the conditional well "being" of my job, of my academical status, of my relationship with my lover, and the minimization of my familial troubles, and the satisfaction of my carnal desires, and the dissatisfaction of my petty mental desires are adequate or promising.

they are not.

they never were.

and i, being one, however feeling none, have no power in my veins to right this wrong aimed at my one and only self. and this n(one) wonders what one has to do with this unending war taking place around one's self in this stage.

it ought not to be that arduous to perform the most estimable one can while, concurrently, treating the zeitgeist of one's mind realistically and authentically.

still, that does not happen.

still, chaos prevails.

because, still, voluntarily or involuntarily, one loses sight of the truth of one's self.

one embodies the state of indecisiveness.

although it is efficacious for the destruction of the unavoidably self-drawn blind curtain around the self of one, indecisiveness stemming from long term bewilderment is nothing but ignominy.

it eats one.

it demolishes one.

it slowly reduces one to none

.

at this ".", as "that" curtain shakes involuntarily, unsure to choose between wrapping itself around the self more tightly or ending itself with the self, sacrifice inevitably enters the stage. if one is to demolish the battalion of rotten indecisiveness in this war, one has to perform continuous sacrifices of self, intentionalized towards one's future-self. because, authentic self-sacrifice makes one real and contributes to the self. sacrifice reminds one of the might one unknowingly possesses. sacrifice extends a hand that is burning but genuine, exorcising that excess "n" in the one.

therefore, the inquiry is no longer about happiness. this is about survival. this is about the survival of one's self. this, sacrifice, is the method one must opt for if one is to survive authentically, instead of being reduced to (n)(o)one, instead of collapsing eternally.

indeed, happiness is no longer the inquiry of one. or mine. the essentiality is not in finding a method of happiness, but in survival. i do not want to know what happiness is. i want to survive. i want to be one, with the deeds i will unceasingly perform.

on this stage, this will happen. it will be made to happen. the curtains will not destroy me, but rise with me. and a real one will perform.

indeed.

only,

in deed.

05/11/2006.