I remember as a village member,
I cut a memorable road in the wood…
I remember as a walking wobbler,
Some deep thrill made shrill the route,
Covered by the blackness of Blackwood.
I remember as a faint bystander,
What a dark power had that wild park,
Beware-embraced, making my eyes sharp,
Taking its hideous darkness like a lark.
I remember with a tender temper,
Some river’s ripping ceased my shiver,
I – a thinker, harkened the silent timber,
How the water seduced me to drink her,
Whether I will fall to flaw, following her.
I remember as a deep slumber,
I answered the call, the fanfare, I heard;
The song of the fake stream was a lake,
A lake calling me with its narcotic ache.
I remember as I remember,
As if that freak lake wanted me to keep,
As if that deep lake… made me to leap.
The only I remember as a member of the lake,
As if I cut a memorable road in the wood…
A dark Violet Narcissus
in the center of my garden
welcomes me anyhow and timeless
while the world I don’t belong just hardens.
I’m from Gawnbeck,
I’ve hit the road.
The road hit me back,
That was rather rude.
Putting up socks after socks,
Fetching that itchy stomach
At the dawn and when it’s down…
What else is the reason of a Bollock?
What else reason brought us upon Earth than facts that
are so trivial, they are even barely believable;
we are none more than the result of animals’ breeding,
doing the same life-essential routines of eating-excreting – and
here, some of our smart arse would say
that we are SENT down to this place by reason that
is we are JUST better than all other livings even if
the facts don’t support this answer; firstly because there was no
question to be answered so arrogantly.
And the above fact that we, humans, defend so desperately our supremacy proves that
we are in deed just a scavenged mixture of nature that
are here just as any other being; temporarily
blessed by the moment and cursed by the next
in what we fall from the circling giant wheel of life; and
this is what we can call a fact
that is standing above beliefs and can start a discussion on what
we are doing here now in these moments that
happen, now, but in the next round they cease as we cease
to know the false facts that kept us believing in
the answer without question why we are here now.
Yes, this isn’t easy to face that there’s no meaning
in the job we take, our education or
the family we were living for;
immense reasons “keeping us alive” are just parts of this
confusion that hides the fact that we are here for
one reason that is to live and die; one
thing is sure above all the false-certitude that Death
alone is the only common variable between us that
is unavoidable, doubtless, assured and
clear as it is.
We are dying together from the first moment we
are to face this glance of time of living, or rather
waiting for reasons to be here;
for we never can know why we are here, but
Godot is coming, and we are either willing or not, but we are waiting it
(“What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come –” Samuel Beckett – Waiting for Godot)
I do art, so I exist,
Alone, my ego is my home,
Grown, I need no war-societies;
I’m no more a homo-primitive-sapiens:
Holding swords and tribes’ declamations,
Writing nice words with bloody hands,
Washing them with victories;
Oh, I’m not a caveman:
My cave is still only mine,
Though, my brain is my only cave,
No material can make true patriarch;
I’m not the apeman that once used to be:
Getting a tree through ruling and fooling,
Through bloodthirst and wolf appetite,
Making the world burn firelessly;
I’m not an animal:
Flying as mercenary eagles,
Dancing among hideous grizzlies,
Idolizing snow-white ravenous tigers;
I will never be any reptile like all of these:
Still, life is daily dumbfoundingly changing,
The one who doesn’t ahead, goes astern,
Like a runner bean in a fired forest;
I’m avoiding to be a part of those:
Living on others,
Like purposeless parasites,
Like sourceless viruses and morbidities:
I nominate my every art against Devolution.
Then, my poems become only gravestones
of someone who’s not dead yet,
but his existence is doubtful.
Might is far away from me;
I might have sent it away from me
by sending the Almighty away from me,
but firstly, He sent away all good I might be.
I’ve just arrived to a memorable moment in my life –
Life, here, is not a period as mortals call their lifespan,
But rather, it is the shore of the course of knowledge –
To ask either heart-lessly or -fully: What is the virtue of life?
I’ve been not supposed to count the long steps
That I had already made next to that rich but capricious river,
That has made me ask questions after questions
Till now, when, it’s made me ask about me, how I’ve arrived thither.
Its query has come with a light breeze on my hands,
Creating tornadoes, twisters and hurricanes somewhere else;
As if it asked only a word: “How come you don’t care,
Then, you care about my moments more than anybody else?”
I knelt on the golden shore, looking deeply into the water:
I knelt at that concrete part of life as a few thousands had done before me,
Then, I read out the most conclusive words before we’d proceed:
Virtues: Live Long The Moment, Meet Death While You Are You, You Before Me.
Pulling my face out of the stream of thoughts hurt –
As if the whole universe has been amputated out of my soul,
Tho, hurtfully – thoughtfully, I knew that I have had to go:
I has been just Rousseau, Camus, Benyamin and a thoughtful dog on the shore.
Facebook. Twitter. Google +.
Machine-made, ever, daily fuss.
Planes. Trains. A traffic jam of cars.
All those like-likely likes, tho no one cares.
Insta. Reddit. Picasso.
Seen, liked, read, then go.
On Iphone. On bus. Living-room.
Iron, silicon and other sources to exhume.
Cold. Solid. Simple. Breathless.
The world around us is deadly reckless.
Courtesy? Strawberry? Flowers, bees living?
Where are the pictures that enliven without #following?
Dead poets had been lucky.
Looking at Living things – philosophically.
Sunny sky, cloud, rain, and a deep’ dark sea.
Feeling words that everybody and nobody see.
Methink myself -now- undead.
Living among things being dead.
A phone. Typing. Words. In the pocket, hidden.
Why am I living in the nature’s details, somewhat Bohemian?