Pockets. What a goddamn godsend is it to possess!
The temporary holding of everything
that stacks the more and has the less –
all the things sent to abandoning,
all the things spent no how just as a waste,
all the things meant to be lost,
all the things temporarily displaced
pass-cross by while being tossed.
There’s no more meaning in the holder either,
so just keep your hands in those pockets
just as it has been done by the wicked creator
of the things possessed as maquettes.
What else the hands in the pockets would signify
than being and being ready to die?
Will the inken feathers see the sky ‘gain,
Have they scratch’d an ev’-flying art for us?
Mayb’ their fallenness is cursed to fall ‘gain,
And heav’nly words are just unseen for us.
Then, words coming by clacks’ and taps’ typing,
Won’t they face the coming oblivion?
What does matter the mechanical rhyming-
‘gainst our flesh and carbonate calcium?
Thou must know, as your seconds are in tomb,
Too, your soul won’t bright on earth for ever-
Your soulshards will unflame really soon,
You might hide and write ’em if y’er clever.
Do write! The daylights blind the blue-cloudy sky;
Tho’, your soulshards star e’er on the night’s high.
C’est pour Bingo qui changea ma vie.
Si Dieu le veut je la marie…
Cette sonnette prouvante que je l’écrire,
Dit: je sens plus pur que Shakespeare.
I considered love as a waste of time;
Fearful and flaming tongues of fire,
Possessing it, as if it would be mine,
Raising, feeding it high and higher,
Pouring all the essence of my heart,
My mortal clay as frozen carcass,
Tryna seek for warmth at her hearth,
Dreaming without holdin‘ purpose.
But now! The fire is smooth as water;
It flows jingling as a secret source.
No, Bingo! Drink not it‘s hot! Wait her!
Wait for it in God’s sake and course!
As well, I am waitin’ for you Bingo, just keep it hot;
Wait and let no bliss for Ibliss, but keep it for God.