i’m stuck
between
the two
unproven
premises
of logic
i’ve heard
the preacher
and his coax
of science
i drink
and therefore
fuck
the whore
of faith
my delicate
finger
is up the
annals
of art
with no
respite
i know
no
value
the
things
we
pretend
to know
in the sperm
of time
I lift
the stone
and find
red
the sky
is the outer
shell of mother’s
breast
they kissed
to imitate
a sleeping
sound
I allow
the species of rock
to define
my heart
so many
drunks
surround me
like a fence
I collect
our sighs
like crumbs
of drying wax
if shop windows
were mirrors
we would buy
ourselves
I pick up
a wet piece of paper
on the other side
said: impossible
I return
to the stone
lift and find:
archers with ash bows
my vision
turns red
and partly
unborn
I listen
to wisdom
and remember
its broken wings
I sit inside
a library
because there is
nowhere else to go.
I do not comprehend
trees
that spring from
the mind
with branches of ink
onto invisible paper –
the future
when did we
all become
dumb poets
composing
impossible fictions
nothing can be known
and oaks
stretching firm and stable
limbs
into tomorrow
do not really
exist.
Don’t know how to drive.
Can’t even park
into huge chasms
of disquietude.
How can I comb
the hair of my
marble personality
under
the incredible wobble
of the universal flux –
my feet are spaghetti
and the air around
one gigantic block
of solid
impossibility.
I can’t breathe,
my incomplete dreams
have begun unfurling
in an inexplicable atmosphere
of suffering.
Life is too much
it is in that last
place
where life is surrendered
and in one flicker
we must die
absolutely
forgiving
beauty
for having existed
and now
been taken away
in one last
absurd breath
every moment
revolves around
that final moment
and if there is any meaning
it is this
the immeasurably short present
being swallowed by nothingness
all details
consumed and
blurred
it is this
single and
isolated tick
of time
where we live
and
unendingly
shiver.
I am
aware
that I
have no
meaning
that all
words
are only
ineffective
abbreviations
of the infinite
that
my choices
are
irrelevant
to what
exists
I am
aware
this has
no significant
value
and all
art
is
powerless
against
a mystical
minute
of silence.
Meet
me
ageless
in
the
streets
we’ll
be bums
smoking
and
in flux
I don’t care
what the
price is
to
be
pure
as a
cigarette butt
burning out
in your
primordial
fingers
meet
me
to
announce a new
temple
for the
boundless:
a park bench
and empty beer
cans
at our
feet.
It’s
all
black
and it is
spinning
the creature
is trembling
in the nook
of an illusion
shunning away
from the blaze
of stimulus
distrustful
of the cause
and the effect
we are the contraction
shriveling
to a singular
point of
fear
the shape of your neck
wrestling with my focus
I could have smiled
and twirled a spoon
in my coffee
to taste the dimensions
of your spiraling
lips
I’ve wondered
how your body
would resist
being against a window
freezing like dew
in the dawn
all that we study
to forget
the longitude
of an instant
laughter
- yours -
dripping
from above
and there is no
sky here
let’s repose
and dissolve
like heat
ripples
from a distance
over
an unfamiliar
path.
