How annoying, how disturbing
living in this urban turning
day to day – and today!
How pressing, depressing
is it to live – captive
How soothing is the thought
ceasing to exist – I sought
the exit of 6 times foot.
What a terrible cavemen we’ve become;
cracking a day to another
in the dark where only wrong ideas come –
but shadows make no mother, nor father.
Just before I could be normal,
I slipped badly even lower –
a pathetic pedestrian animal,
marchant au crève til the collapse.
I’m grabbing into love
as a last grip of survival;
madly and tasteless
until the taste of death.
I can feel how it loosens,
my grab to the sense of reality –
I’m afraid to ask, to know
whether it is too late…
whether she’ll be there at time…
but she is always here
in my mind
There are so many courses I could have taken,
so many paths, fighting down my traumas,
so many hearts to make my own re-awaken,
but there would be always a me…
… who has to suffer.
So, I am not mistaken that it is me…
The Martyr of My Happy Alteregos.
Cornered by this ill-fate ordered,
but there must exist an alternate ending,
not scorched-land bordered;
the thoughts are so vain, but somehow mending…
but even before noon,
I’m nighting to the blue.
Why is it so hard to talk to me?
I’m so easy to define and see
like a drawn circle on a 2D paper;
no need to think of infinite dots,
no need to calculate any of the odds
why we are a 2D paper’s spots.
I’m so easy to talk to as a 2D circle;
I know all about what’s a circle,
I have ideas who draws circles,
what’s the paper all around,
but in a glance, all the flat talk circles down.
I am not a 2D circle –
I am a ball after all;
I need to select 3D objects
to talk about the mere sphere
we see as truly- or non-coprehendable.
I talk about all dimensions –
nonetheless its name or number,
or how they are non-comprehendable;
I am an E8 mass of particles,
being everywhere, but nowhere as a whole.
I am so hard to talk to
because I am here and there after all;
there’s my shadow on a 2D paper,
there I am bouncing like a ball,
and such a changing shade is barely talkable.
Would we any rate –
stop this masquerade?
We act in the shop.
We act on the streets.
We act at the workplace.
We act alone under the sheets.
We act with the friends,
differently with one, two or any of them.
We put a new mask at each circumstances,
not missing a single of those chances
to see a reality and feel it,
act on it and fake it until we believe it.
Then, when those rare moments come up
finding us without absolute no mask, no setup;
we question the whole thing that has been,
in the shop, on the streets, at the workplace –
under the sheets –
and as we see that we have no face,
and nothing does matter,
we cry badly at cost of whatever,
or at any rate
just to let us start again
just let us go back
to that stupid masquerade.