Friday, December 22, 2006

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!

Monday, December 18, 2006

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!

Sunday, December 17, 2006

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.

Monday, December 11, 2006

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.

Friday, December 8, 2006

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.

Monday, December 4, 2006

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.