It is ALL in there, only that it remains hidden
on display in… pavilions!
in the book of the moment,
at the given moment in the humble meekness
where’s the window’s skin is far too thin for the wicked weather
quivering with fury… stammering and iced
(Add a thousand and so more)
Who sits near you,
touching you, a slow trembling, Fingers.
Bring on lots more honeyed mead.
For caged music(s), the voice of longing
Blessed art thou, a little bird, blessed among the blessed
sitting next to our piano and sharing a sweet whisper
my soul is fleeting, like the airplane circling over my old room
the black keys, the white keys
forged in silence
I play the piano, people…
It was bombs and cannons and soldiers shooting
I am everything
becoming a mass of flames at the touch of…
(Fingers! I either got blind, can’t see a thing. Fingers!)
Am I nothing?
But the blank face of the bloodbath bathed in mutiny
Of the March pale grass, eristic cherries scattered by the wind
And what was left… was music and me
I gaze into my front yard
you know, living outdoors is very beautiful
I’ve seen the old mine battlefield
and that day, I mean to play minefields, there
with a hammer!
bumping against the keys
stripped of a core melodies
An understanding words with a remarkable depth of insight worlds
saying such things as my heart is defiled
as agate as.. hematite gemstone
It seems a mythical beast itself is glowing from under my skin
red – light picture
Just… ash, just this…
I am watching the sea that I will never see
In this accursed hamlet,
I describe the sluggish steps of Kings
sneaking by palaces at Samarra
Which will never whisper
I recognize the images of distant landscapes
in the verse that does not unveil itself to me
There is no nature in poetry
she is sick of the three pens and mangled alphabet.
Her belly is swollen
There is no promised land to continue towards
on one’s pilgrimage
I am dust, bloated and greedy
With this departure from the country of poetry, with a smile of a crying child
answer me, chimera that glides between my rows and my trenches
Be honest, the deep illusion with elephant diphtheria and malignant disease
three lines before the end of.. this, before your affluence rots
and your garments are devoured by moths, INTER NOS,
is it possible for anything to be minisculeto dust?
Veni at me… sed wicked… Climax non est!