nothing is that important
nothing significant in days
nothing as exciting as a feast
nothing hilarious
(he says not a fuck, there's no event
no friends inviting, no lovers for a tryst
there are no offers, not a bridge
for the island, not a boat
nothing settling
all floating)
yet you keep on building your bricks
touching your dick, wanting a break
you write the lines, you fill the gaps between
struggling with all these empty moments
these rigid hours, these rugged days
these steep years, on stiffer necks
chasing nicks, and spitting fires
and vomiting some green slimy portions
of those regrets
he says this is something unspecified
confusing, ambivalent, and to ambiguous,
what do you really mean?
hollow and light and floating,
you mean, existence?
i do not want clarity
this will breed too much familiarity
and soon this will amount
to nothing but
contempt and disrespect for privacy
he says, there you are again
speaking and yet too concealing
what the hell am i at? and what about you?
i have nothing to say and if i want to say something
i do not really mean anything at all.
ah, this is so much ado about nothing.
this is life, i am telling all of you,
there is only this lack of interest to be intimate
this laxity
this taking for granted what essence is there
scents and memories
past and future, the present about to be eaten
raw and consumed.
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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