I was thinking about God,
and how He creates this world
using letters and the infinite light;
black light on a white.
what about myself,
not a poet, just trying to write;
black letters on white.
sometimes I feel lonely when I write,
or maybe I write because I feel lonely?
(I know it is only a feeling)
God is always one and He is obsolete; we’re always looking for someone, to be somehow complete.
my father says, any artists are lonely in the world they create.
an almost intimate tap
a caring hand
the metal fingers.
a few prosthetic ideas
and the new order.
then the schism
between the memory and the mind.
the new leap
into the present.
paranoia mon amour.
this sensation of being
artificially gauged to the time
fettered by the tourniquet of the suit.
measured by a number of desperate attempts
of the molecules of caffeine to penetrate
membranes of your brain-cells.
watching her fixing the bra and the hair
in the next cubicle
adds an extra dimension to the moment.
(I know, you can watch it in the infinite loop.)
the resistance is futile
to the subtle impulses of your withering libido.
(bite the bullet, it will later dissipate
during a conference call)
another coffee break,
another stolen look.
you call it morning
I call it a self deceit.
trompe l’oeil – visual illusion in art, especially as used to trick the eye into perceiving a painted detail as a three-dimensional object
he always walks behind me
and talks to himself.
actually, he is talking to me,
but I never listen.
he attempts to reach out to my ears,
to grab my elbow.
he is calling me by my name.
(I am wandering how does he know my name).
yet I’ll never turn back
and ask him to stop, because I know the reason he does it.
he is a courier, sent from above
to deliver a message with the truth,
which I refuse to know.
so do you, never turning back to me.
into the poetry of the havoc.
I’m an accidental Gilgamesh,
in the journey for a philosopher’s stone
to transform the life
into the palindrome.
to build a Ziggurat
a Tower of Babel
a spaceship to Rigel.
you were whispering the codes
of the ancient gods,
but we forgot the semantic rule
of the dot.
hush! don’t say a word.
time to dip into primordial soup.