Wires and chips are everywhere
Under the ground, in the air,
In my pocket and in my ear.
Electric devices cut and dry my hair,
Correctors tell if my lines are fair.
My brain and art are electronic
In every neurotic, poetic,
And subatomic thought.
But what is magic-like more ironic
Is that I don’t give an aught…
…what I am just scribbling about.
I want to believe that there is a soul inside me,
Not just a preprogrammed instinct;
Learning and storing that are later called as me,
While I’m still just a mass of matter.
Molecules of Water, Nitrogen and Carbon,
Fluorine and Ammonia linked
To Phosphorous, Sulfur, Sodium and Silicone
Do build me up to mere matter.
Then, where does hide that so-called spirit,
Inside the heart or the mind;
Flowing in my blood’s or nerves’ circuit,
In-between the former or latter?
And then, what is its equivalent exchange,
What value holds the bad- or goodness;
Is it quantum-built, occult or else-strange,
Or rather, am I just a bladder?
It would be great knowing about souls,
Believing I’m not mere emptiness;
But all I know is matters with their roles,
And that all, for me, doesn’t matter.
There’s no harder than C#,
For it’s object-oriented,
Tho life makes me see sharp,
Cuz I have no object to be oriented.
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?
Like the bacteria living on volcanic sulphur,
I am doomed to live in my dark sepulchre –
no visitors, no wind-brought flowers;
I am mourning alone the longest last hours.
I am breathing agony like vaporized mercury,
hoping that some day will come to bury –
bury every feeling that cannot be beared alone;
finally getting along with myself, finding a home.
I’ve marched in the Pluto’s coldest valleys,
burnt my heart away on Venus’ alleys –
my galactical travel in the dark matter
made me a living black hole; nothing does matter.
I could be promised with another solar system,
another parallel dimension’s enthusiasm –
but the beauty of nature taught me already;
the paradise is falling, so be steady.
A dead organic organism, I am, travelling,
either escaping or sometimes just dwelling –
I will find no place on Earth, nor in the space;
Here I am locked down, and I will face what I am to face.
Billions of microscopic bugs living on the skin, feeding on the dead fruits of the yet living body
while drinking discharged juices, deepened in breeding behind the scenes,
laying their eggs in the crinkles’ valleys, hidden in the hairy forests, under the skin;
marching vehemently in hundred crowds, passing by each other senselessly minding their own business
by thought that they own the body while it’s itchingly screaming up time to time,
rousing wars that scratches up the surface, killing the forests, but not the eggs behind;
by nights leading their pheromonal parties, dancing on the oldest language of propagation
or linguidly ending the daily routines of biting night snacks out of the skin,
sleeping in the meanwhile of the parties’ extravagance and drudgeries’ hodgepodgery;
by mornings eating up the land as starting the hungover routine of consuming
with silenced ears over the crawling of the machinery crowd, and the flushes of the morning urination;
covering the corpus with nameless dead bodies that still serve their automatized occupation,
borrowed instinctive rituals of dead-sitting and welcoming the newborn
breaking out from eggshells to enter the shell of another sequels of dynastic intercourse;
hormonal testaments endorse their own infestation that’s irritated by none but its hipocrisy –
the itchy screaming of the burning land is ceaselessly calling for a final extermination, an end of parasitism,
but the races are just growing and evolving until the best sanitizing can’t touch that one percent scarabies
that might rouse their eggs out of the ashes and revive the never ending infection;
smiting the skin on the head, inside the holes, under the last hidden place hidden from microscopes,
until it can be said that the mites rule, own, enliven or perish the world that is their body.
Homo Demodex Folliculorum
It’s been two years of smoking;
ten cigarettes a day in average
that make roughly 5 euros a day,
and 1.800 euros a year,
but I’m not materialist anyway.
A cig takes avarage 5 minutes;
two in the empty morning,
three during the busy day,
and five in the void of the night
that’s an hour a day, and 12 days a year
but I’m just killing time anyway.
A cig takes away 11 minutes from life;
roughly two hours every day,
and one month a year,
missing from the biological lifespan,
but I’m not into living anyway.
A cig has more than 7000 chemicals;
About 250 poisonous insecticide,
70 cancerous carcinogenics,
and other provoke schizofrenic psychosis,
but I’m dead inside-out anyway.
There are infinite reasons why I started;
my mom was a smoker all the time,
a cry for a help in a bad time,
the incarnation of my want to die,
but I’m not a man of reasons and calcs anyway.
Many questions have been raised on my nature
The most of them by myself, but also by people;
The funny thing in the huge number the questions assume:
They can be answered by one word: Vacuum.
From those questions, some may please me
Like “What art are those that may lead thee?”
Or “What limit has been reached by your knowledge?”;
They are rare but I like when I’m asked on my storage.
While there are questions I barely like
Like “Why are you a person whom we barely like?”
Or “Why are you so different and not alike?”;
Let’s answer them by a single strike:
My nature is like the nature’s nature:
There’s no place where’s no creature;
So, what I’m fighting is what the nature’s fighting,
Where is darkness there must be lighting:
Vacuum, I’m all fulfilled with emptiness,
If there’s ten planets I need a twentieth,
I wish to fulfill my eager to be fulfilled
Even if by the pressure of that knowledge I’ll be killed.
When people will travel through light atoms by atoms,
When we will change thoughts by mental mediums,
When some of us will reach cosmic singularity,
When it will be close to exceed humanity,
There will be us, still fighting on the side of ignorance.
It’s said: there’s a God
Everything in six days and rested…
I don’t want this theory to be tested,
But the copyright on his days is quite divested:
(Two more Babylonian lines
For a Moon-phase advertise’ …)
Sunday – Norse goddess,
Chased by Hate, son of the grotesque
Moonday – Sun’s brother,
Also dog-chased, but not bothered until
Tiw’s day – the dueling Mars,
But not making too many wars with hands
Odin’s day – deathly Mercury,
Nothing makes him more hurry than
Thor’s Day – thundering Jupiter,
Famously he’s a soul-janitor just as his dad,
Freya’s day – our sweet Venus,
Every man is dying just to reach her..
Saturn’s day – the god of time,
Known as Cronos with a scythe, eating
The more I’m looking for meaning in this life,
The more I end up saying: where’s your God now?