I was asked a couple of times
to choose my favorite poem;
what a rude demand,
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.
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.
I built the walls, burnt the bridges,
scorched the land, searched the witches,
ruptured the nerves, devoured the preserves,
starved the body, tortured the mind,
riped out the tongue, blinded the eyes,
left none behind, let none comeaforth,
I am alone, only of a sort;
still the enemy is knocking, mocking,
wherefrom I cannot flee
and I just can’t…
Here’s the fellow who’s not mellow
I’m born rotten and forgotten
I had had poems, kind of solemn
But here I am with crying rhyming
I’m good in bad moods and vice versa
I tried to be a smartass, but proven the least smartest
I’m still unknowing, and not going
I’m a born clown, pulling down
I’m in a vortex, out of context
I can’t heal, I can’t feel
I’m surely nut and I am not
How? What? Why? I really dunno –
Though my life was already ready to go;
Drama, drama and goddamn traumas –
These drums are drumming under all my Sagas;
Dive and rise, dive and rise are all my rhymes –
These tenses tensed me all the times;
Crawling, falling, crawling, falling in a row –
Bowling the same boulder with a giant crow;
Wishing – hissing this has been such an Epic –
But despite all the witting, been just pathetic;
Missing love and dissing care –
Out of context just as sex –
My mental shutdowns just multiplex;
No social circles, nor any goals –
On my knowledge bigass holes;
Body? Housing? Dare to diss that thing? –
I’ve never been else than disgusting;
I tried to ignore, tried to die –
But I failed even to cry;
My nerves served me only disconcert –
Awkward, harmful as pervert;
I’d blame gods or Darwin’s words –
But it still constantly hurts;
I should quit and I am closing –
My life is the best thing for losing;
Even the thought is so pleasant –
No more drums of past and present;
No more future unpleasant Pre-sent.
I’m sober like Piza’s tower’s straight,
Appreciate! ’cause I tried it, mate;
Like I said the worldly world is doggy doggy,
Don’t get surprised when you’re in an in ill-meant doggie.
I just tried life, but I did my best as newbie,
No one loved me, but it’s okie –
I have my drinks and the escorting soda,
I’m still wise looking just as Yoda.
I’ve no prophecies, no fear, bro;
I’ve got no ads, just go with the flow;
If you can’t bear the shit you are through,
Just have some drinks to make blur your view.
People are cruel, brutal and even more,
Black and white’s fine, but not a so-called colour
Because what is happy is heretic;
Deep down, every person speaks Arabic.
They say it’s Haram to have my rum,
but expect me to stay dumb
When they say life is a testing process,
not a meaningless toxic mess.
I’m grabbing into love
as a last grip of survival;
madly and tasteless
until the taste of death.
For mere poetry,
we give up finance, romance
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.