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.
Who’s empty handed
Just badly have pretended
that had had something.
The destiny – whether one’s ready to
die on it or die for it –
has never been else than a given decision,
been our ever nature to screen it,
cast it, and act on it until we own our last deadend reality.
(The die has been cast. – Julius Caesar)
Once, I told you I wished we were free to our will
to be together as I do want it still –
without made up social contracts as religions;
what does love do with ruling nations?
Meeting you was fate of coincidences, that
we were sharing in life the same debt
from our parents and ancestors, the curse
that we cannot be good, only worse.
I’ve almost accepted the curse as my nature
when I met your highly pure feature
to learn, and go, not to giving up to learn,
but our demons led to give up to earn.
Breaking under hardship, seduction and pride,
concepts of dignity, the weak human mind –
I don’t know what could push us away so far;
but both of us stopped fighting who we are.
“If we met in a bar”, “if I could turn back time”,
“returning seven years old, would I do the same crime?” –
such questions pop up with no sense of reality
because we have but pictures, then we see through our cavity.
We believed it’s over – even if I didn’t and don’t wish so,
call it martyrdom, dignity – I don’t think so;
we just gave up on reality that we both adored;
and now we are living hell for it with no reward at all.
How much suffering, a mortal soul could bear
until recognizing that forgiveness is our divine elixir;
forgiving for giving up on us, forgetting the pain –
just like a wicked god-story; repent or suffer in vain.
Should I look for meaning in life if I know
I am following my own product?
Kill or beget; we are all following a flow –
Myself, I am barely able to deduct
Or anticipate the so-called reality I undergo.
Have I missed an important act?
A purpose I should have known a long ago?
Cup all of my years in your hands as a fact
Of that I was living, and throw ’em with a blow;
Coffee and cigarettes will distract me while you’re doing so.
(Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee? – Albert Camus)
This is the end.
But the end started at the creation
of the first deoxyribonucleic acid,
of the first cellular life,
of the first material’s
This is the end.
The end was here from the beginning
at the enactment of beginning,
at the start of all existence,
at the emptiness
in the void.
This is the end.
The end of my deoxyribonucleic acids
of formed cellular creation,
of temporary learning,
It bugged me from the very beginning
that I wanted to be wanted,
listened to others who didn’t listen,
nor stopped for a while
to ask: what do you want?
Even so, I never got bugged in the ol’ routine,
doing and doing again and again
what has been said,
and hoping that it led
Debugging the truth, it did have led
as well as anything would have
because if I learnt something
is definitely that
it will always be someway.
So, the bug wasn’t in the system,
but rather it was me;
for what reason I would see
elsehow, while no one
This attitude turned me to a big bug
of nihilism and other ism,
anything related to carelessness;
to show up: you can ignore me,
I’m always the one who cares less.
This step on the dust of the pavement,
stepped slowly and with passion,
reflects the magic of body
and this worldly physics:
What a dynamics!
That horn tooting in the wrooming,
human feelings in mechanics,
resonates the air with waves
of microscopic tsunamis:
What a composition!
In this garbage, that apple stump,
nature and city grabbed as one,
radiates an endless ending
of turning and returning:
The cycle of life!
This worth of that leaving moment,
been here, but now it’s Faraway,
creates newly lost happiness
of “it was” and ‘no worries’:
Seizing every very moment as it is,
like the guy with no memories,
brings ecstasy to learning –
relearning thing to thing:
A tick and a click are rhyming up in a lame flame,
A thick stick of dry herb is the flame’s aim,
That starts to burn and blatter in a burring pain,
Framed by a grey fog, hiding its disdain.
The mere pain of life urges this hateful act,
Looking for more pain pack by pack,
Claiming if there’s no stop, I want more of that,
Waiting and feeling and waiting and feeling,
The sniff-by-sniff approaching Death.
Camus died years ago.
I can’t be sure, even with Wikipedia.
The truth is so flexible;
every head has a couple of truths
He died in a car accident
as it was written,
but we can’t know what’s behind –
surely, we want to hear A Story
about a strange death.
What was he thinking, planning
when he got into that car?
Would he be happy with that death?
Was he ever be happy in his life?
He was aware.
He was aware of the indifference,
insignificance of life.
This is a curse,
barely letting you fall asleep.
Awareness is awakenedness.
Having dreams is luxury
for one who’s awake of dreaming,
believing we exist
while someone who’s awake
sees we don’t.
We live and die;
laugh or cry, we die.
There’s no superior fact above
in our own self-created scenes.
Had he ever been happy?
I ask again –
of course he had;
happiness comes up and leaves
in an absurdly meaningful moment.
That moment is absurd
because it ends.
Then, it leaves no meaning behind.
Love, wine, other hallucinogens
leave us empty as We Are.
If someone’s aware of such facts,
it doesn’t matter whether happy,
living or dead is the person
because we’ll be up to everything
and never belonging to a thing.
So, just get into that car,
send our grandson
To buy our last pack of cigarette
because what happens happens.
Then, it ends. Absurd.