I was asked a couple of times
to choose my favorite poem; what a rude demand, how gross just to choose for judging.
What should it be;
the most confessionalist, something about nature, mankind or poetry itself while I’ve been just writing?
I can’t even choose the worst;
the most ridiculous, something about whining, one with bad rhyming or one that doesn’t fit me at all?
If you read all my works,
you should know… but why would you anyway… so, I inform you: I’ve been just writing.
Now, I call it my worst poem,
looking for my best of all because at some point we are the best and the worst while we didn’t exist at all.
Pocket poets have no good stories,
but what is a good story
We are none else more than fantasies
in some stranger’s fairy
So I’m happened no one sees
nay me, writing this story;
I’m just history.
It’s neither my pleasure, nor my style,
but I’ve been drinking for a while. We already know it why: some nights are just too heavy being dry.
I had been suffering and crying
even before alcoholic supplying, but since I have it I say: freck it.
I’m not looking for acceptance;
I hate myself even in this stance, but surely I am passing time, and I find words for my rhyme.
My dear Lord, Dionysus,
is tottaly not like Jesus; he lets me do my own sacrifice, and eases me directly by the price.
How should I thank him more
than just live and drink a bit more? Life is hard even as a drunkard, but it’s the life of a pocket bard.
Here’s the fellow who’s not mellow
Anymore I’m born rotten and forgotten Anyway I had had poems, kind of solemn Anyhow But here I am with crying rhyming Anywhere I’m good in bad moods and vice versa Anywise I tried to be a smartass, but proven the least smartest Anywhen I’m still unknowing, and not going Anywhither I’m a born clown, pulling down Anybody I’m in a vortex, out of context Anyplace I can’t heal, I can’t feel Anything I’m surely nut and I am not Anyone.
The glass is full-poured, but still empty;
there’s inside me a thirsty envy to write, to write, to write, but first of all to live.
For mere poetry,
we give up finance, romance and mortality.
There are times when you want to see a movie
just for a scene or for an image, to listen to a song, to recite a poem just for a line, just for one word that gives meaning to all.
As there are times when you live with someone
just for that colorless, wordless moment, compared to the years being so insignificant, still that moment means all what is life, saying that you are needed.
There’s an ocean hurricane of burden horrored thoughtless thinking and doubtful agonies,
waiting to take control of the last beam of mind and draw darkened realities;
whirling and whirling in filthy foulness and hellish sorrow –
what could ease it now if there’s no peace to borrow:
lock them inside poetry and remain hollow.
No mellifluous lightbeams of the morning sun,
not even heated kissing of Helium atoms; No crowing alarms waiting like a loaded gun, not even deceived asleep minutes of cogs.
No rythmic murmurs of labour-heading steps,
not even monotonous capitalist torture; No chopstick drums on the lunchboxed crêpes, not even wasted earthlings’ nourriture.
No freedom fanfares from the last man-hour,
not even we are remaining slaves; No loose hugging in a rencontre’s empower’, not even we’re all meeting in graves.
No dark, star-brighted blanket’s planetary cover,
not even nightly phantoms of Paris; No crawling consciousness’ journey to discover, not even primates gazing to an abyss.
No poems today, no artistic magnificence,
not even music, not even dance; No poems today, and this day is a lie because without art we’re not alive.