The bravery of authentic existence is a choice.


The poet is the one whose mind and heart are puzzled over things, many of them gave up.

The poet, as the last Mohican, with his art, connects immortal to mortal, in the garden of the separating paths.

The poet suggests that the beauty of the spirit of the only permanent value in relation to which everything else does not matter. It never dies and the only shining at all times
as the moonlight that with its splendour breaks the blackness of the night.

Even when it sees the dark, and when surrounded by darkness, the poet offers light.
His poems are a conscious choice by which the poet moves the boundaries of the darkness pushing him out of his world glittering path to anyone who wants to see and do not tap in the dark.

Poems are prayers with which the poet boldly breaks false, dormant peace calling for awakening and liberation from grotesque characters whose zombie-like existence kills the liveliness of art and spiritual creation.

In the rousing kiss of the poetry,  the creator is ready to play their life convinced that only the beauty of pure artistic expression can win perversion.

Through the depth of their poems of which will not give up the poet shows that the bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poem must be an impeccably solid structure. It must be – solid.
The poem is a work of art. And the act must be closed in itself. This must be impeccable.

The one verse in the poem has several blind streets, signposts and goals than a writer ever succeeds to create a dozen pages.

 

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Confession at 3.33


Confession at 3.33

I confess to you, I of an unusual nature,
And all the kingdoms I offer to you- plain.

Lying tongues- orators and benefactors
The first one is of giants of song as of hay,
Through games of ancient history, they peck on the intestines
Filled with the substance of nasty virtue,
With fruitful mouths, they drink the wines.

Serpents hiss with human tongues…
The orator is amidst the ball and casts off damnations… with love.

Fools

Washerwomen wash the shores for incessant feasts,
For the water trough of the early morning peacock.

Beasts
Tigers roar- damned by the fables-
To washerwomen, for labour’s sake, and the dishes plentiful
Fools drink the honorable regal wines.

Casanovas, drunks, erotomen and everybody’s merry Big Brother
Far less than geniuses
Who lead the fools
With fornication, cunningness, and booze
To hidden thoughts.

Traitors
Scared dogs.
Skilled at stuffing bones.

I raise my right hand and swear on the darkness of
Legitimacy
With an unburdened mind and a truth in my heart
Within the light dewy with the ability of
Mankind
Your knife cut through all the conditions of disorder.
It’s entirely safe in my hands.

With a frozen smile,
I walk through the fall
Of a zillion kingdoms.
Flags are waving and ships are sailing underneath the sky

Of a broken magnificence

After years of absence
Colored in oddity,
I stay…  while drowning in tears

Of my Arabian wrath.

Kitty Kisses, to my beloved tomcat Spartacus


.12605331_173741199648543_3422781219120191768_oFluffy, curly-headed, looney ball!
He jumps upward and bounces off the walls.
Thwack! (Kerplunk)
Then he curls up, snoring in his sleep.
(Huuuuuuuhh. guhrrrrrrr huuuu grrrr grrrgrrr…..siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…)
He is such a such a noble cat!

Sometimes I call him Gerard Erickson.
Sometimes I call him Sanders Pennington.
He speaks, cat, dog, human:
‘Tomcat, are you going to eat the dog’s leg, perhaps? ‘ (rub, rub, up-tail)
‘Sspurr -ior! But.. I would paw – fer beef steak.’
(Huuuuuuuhh. guhrrrrrrr huuuu grrrrr)
‘Are the chicken wings too bad for you? ‘
(blglglblglllgbbblglblgllbgglgllghghghghh)
A roasted mouse in the microwave?
‘Disa-purr-! , slave! ”
(P – KIIIIIIIIIHHHHHHHHHHHH! ! !)

Before that, scratch my elevator – butt!
Then he turns, in Dead Mousie pose, and clumsily mumbles orders:
‘Open My door’
‘Close My Window’
‘No, do some ‘Prairie-Doggin”!
‘Do some Cat – Dance! ‘
Both left feet moving
Then
Both right feet moving
‘Walk like a cat, you, clumsy camel!
Think like a cat!
More kitty – like! That’s it.
More kitty – like.
More more cattitude!
You have no style, let’s get you to ballet! ‘
He sings soprano (Mrrrowwww. Mrrowwww. mrrrrrowwwww.)

‘Merry Meow Birthday, my Batler, where are you?
Happy Meow, too you, too!
Fetch me my slippers!
Pass on my reading glasses!
I have to get my higher degree.
Heeeeeeere kittykitttykittikitttykitty!
Heeeeeeere kittykitttykittikitttykitty!
Heeeeeeere kittykitttykittikitttykitty!
Go kitty! …Off’

Winding Up
Digging In
Revving Up
Once he is in his cat – cradle
I am telling him tales to his fluffy tail
He is my, fur real, Claw-some friend
He is my dearest and purrrr-fect son
Arm to paw
Cheek to cheek
Heart to heart
Lips to muzzle (mwahhhh)
(Lub-dub…lubdub….lub-dub… Lubdub….)