Sixty years barely would be enough
To call him on a laugh.
Sixty years may sound like a long bark,
Trying to make him talk.
Though, we remember the smile of him:
Vicious and genius, but thin.
Though, we miss his silent presence;
He’s somewhere behind a fence.
Under his hands, hundreds of scenes run
Without a frame of him having fun.
He’s a wizard – a video cutter little elf,
But the best he cuts himself.
He plays with layers like “my friends”,
Then, he hides it till it ends.
He himself is born as a layer by his parent,
Named himself as transparent.
We remember a broken-blond hair,
Being among us in pair,
But who could wait till he would arrive:
Chris, the boy who’s almost alive.
Ate them up.
In the gap.
my whole life
I never smoked.
Why I started then?
It’s good while waiting
for a bus to come.
This is what I tell
when I’m asked –
it’s too awkward to say
The old bold me wasted all his chances –
If I had any –
Seeing no escaping romances –
But I had many –
Crying for help dearly –
Having remained unimportant –
Declaring my fear clearly –
Notwithstanding ending in abandonment.
For the one who has no rest from tempest to tempest,
What does the word mean: summer?
What does the word mean: winter or weather?
Would he believe ever that there’s a good weather?
Would he believe in warmness and sunshine or any similar form,
Or rather, would he see them as the lull before the storm?
Wouldn’t he see the sun as hiding new tortures?
Wouldn’t he hide under a tempest’s cloak as turtles?
Saying: Oh Sweet Home, I know you and you know me,
Oh Sweet Roar, Thunder and Rain; follow me.
My muscles are tied to two wild horses,
The Morning and the Night,
The lines are held by the work I’m doing,
And the wipes by the time.
The days are yielding to their courses,
Absorbing my might,
The fatigue obliterates what I’m doing,
Any good thing or crime.
The only clean things are these morses,
Crying s.o.s. in the fight,
But the horses are just pursuing,
They listen to no rhyme.
Woe on the time which is resting under the ground –
Been its graveyard tomb or sepulchar mound,
Been its object eulogy, or been ne’er mourned,
Been mouldered, or b’ing in a funeral morgue;
Woe on them, woe!
Woe on the time and its living framework –
Being the languid killing of a suicidal slice of time,
Being the laborious ploy of mine or thine,
Being any masque of pure waste of time;
Woe on them, woe!
Woe on the larval chances of the upcoming –
Bēon the unseen turn of a living second,
Bēon the unbirth non-living dead moments,
Bēon any biased prophecy of temporal or beyond;
Woe on them, woe on them all!