The truth sang of stone


Into the shade of roses, I desired to hide

But I fell asleep in a book

Open on a poem about a t(ort)u(rer)tor

 

Poets of long ago

Under shadows and soil

Count they on seraphim

On somberness, on window panes

On doors pried open and the secret of life

On branches of cypress that lure with silence

And long, northern morning under harps

 

At the wane of sight

Let quietude rip out the truth

Sang of stone

THE PARTY AT THE BANKSY’S


dedicated to poets and to all those who feel that way

1.

THE LETTER OF PURE REASON ADDRESSED TO BANKSY COVER POET BAND

You can not destroy the Thing.
you are unable to choke it as you like to asphyxiate the human form
ashes to ashes, dust in the mouth, there is a tongue inside or
a thin chord, of the monster – monster mute
after a large cut-off

But you cannot stop the Thing
as you can not stop the body to penetrate into the body,
nor to pause an air to mix with an air, it flows…
into the water, water moves through the water, a wave will cover the wave
at death’s door,
demise is behind a word, vain, the syllables cannot waive her part

2

THE PARTY AT THE BANKSY’S

While sipped Bollinger at fiscal cash register,
they saw a monster riding the cumulus
no, monster cannot ride a cumulus
logic finds monsters cannot ride a cumulus
the monster came down from cumulus
thus, the nouveau poets and the monster met
at the fiscal cash register, dancing and sipping together

After a drinking session, they tied monster and portrayed him
at the circus performances
because monster does not riding cumulus
a man may be ashamed looking at the face from the monster

3

WHO FEAR PERSECUTION BY BANKSY COVER POET BAND

Nouveau riche are looking for the word to cage her
how can one cage the word?
the perfect crime for better sales
but you cannot kill the word
for word is the thing and the thing is the monster
as you cannot trap the monster that is riding cumuli

imaginary, vague, impossible
fantasma is dancing in the field of nerves quickly, of
one nervous writer and hid in in his book
inside the book is scratching monster, bound in a story

You cannot kill a book
all you can achieve is that she, with her torn sheath,
hides herself in solitude, reading herself
looking into the wild heart from the sky
and be happy.

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The Word in me.
the Music in me.
the Monster in me.

Sure you could get your clows on the book
and ripped her to pieces, sending it into the shadow and trade…
(How much you are strong!
Persistent, especially)
the word pops up from the book,
hops in the air and disappears among the cumulus, screaming:

“God is calling.
God is poetry. Hurry up, Banksy!”
“God’s calling Banksy?”

The Banksy cover poet band has to go to church because it was written
that in the beginning was the Word
so the logical thing to seek the in a church
piety has changed shape.
The Thing had to be quiet, but at least she escaped pests
and this time.
Maybe you are wandering where is she now.
I am looking at her, we are smiling to each other
boocoo dinky dow, she cooes, my sweet little monster

Although ..
Have you ever considered the possibility to kill the Writer?
or is not necessarily.
they are mostly on Banksy sale.

A sell out. Somebody who comprimises their integrity, morality and principles for money. It is commonly associated with attempts to increase mass appeal or acceptability to mainstream society.

To your Grace, “The darkness will understand”, Leila Samarrai


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To your Grace*

Into the shade of roses I desired to hide
But I fell asleep in a book
Open on a poem about a t(ort)u(rer)tor

Poets of long ago
Under shadows and soil
Count they on seraphim

On somberness, on window panes
On doors pried open and the secret of life
On branches of cypress that lure with silence
And long, northern morning under harps

At the wane of sight
Let quietude rip out the truth
Sang of stone

*Addressed to the readers