Poetry page Don't read this It�s true: I�m being completely ignored. Can�t even manage to get people bored. Day in and day out, I pour out my stuff. Obliv�ion, it seems, has never enough. Whatever I give, it hungers for more. My entire self it wants to devour. But nevertheless I will not give up. Persistence, perhaps, will earn me a Cup. And then, when it does, and the trophy glows just try to make sure that nobody knows. Our rights We beg for what�s already ours. We have them but we still demand Our rights. They�re lost and gone yet still somewhere. We trade-off when we should have all. We�re locked up for our liberty. We perish for our better lives. And when we die we die without the rights we had when we were born. Even if we never had them Somehow somewhere we could feel them. Poverty Now all is gone, consumed or sold. And this was not your right to choose. It came on you, like winter�s cold. You look at what you�ve left to loose And all there is, is part of you. You may be forced to cut your roots, To go elsewhere and start anew, To sell your body and its fruits, Your kidney, child or cavity. The last to go is dignity. Short love poem When trying not to think of you My mind did wearily object. Then this idea so dear to me I had no choice but to respect. Desperation You shed tears with your eyes closed you wipe them with your hands closed you hear your suffering with your ears closed. The wrong train The train he took was wrong. It came and went along To places nice and bliss But not to where she is. Erotic limerick There was this girl insatiable. Her strength, it was admirable. She fucked around the clock Until her lover�s cock Was crooked and extendible. Limerick There once was a girl from Shanghai Who was as wild as a war cry. She needed a hammer And someone to slam her Straight between her left and right eye. Erotic limerick 2 Her cup was the size of D (Trust me I�m a devotee). And of it she had A pair or a set This was clear for all to see. When the sun becomes a supernova The earth is like a frozen lake. Fire, under our feet, opaque. The heat of the sun will one day melt the skin of the earth and lay hell on earth, hell in blinding light. An empty hell, no soul in sight. Everything perished long before. Futility, I do implore, should not lead you into despair. Transient bliss is no small affair. Accidents will happen I end this sorry tale by falling on my knife. Compared to suicide this fall can let me hide the fact that I decide to leave behind my wife, my child, my love, my life. They�ll never have to guess that there was selfishness or great unhappiness in me when still alive. No thoughts or teardrops filled with anger, pain and guilt, with �where all wrong it went�. �T was just an accident. Sudden The wind is peeling my skin. There was no time to give up, No time to let go, no sin to repent, just time to stop... Refugee You can�t be here, you can�t be there, You can�t be anywhere. Bacteria, that�s what you are, Repelled and kept afar By States that think that they should be Immune systems for thee. Patterns of dust Why do you want to escape your depression? It�s the most honest and true disposition. Deep down you know that your life has no meaning, that living, doing and dying are nothing but changes in patterns of atoms and dust. Despair and depression are honesty�s cost. And then, when the truth is becoming a bore may you be forgiven for thinking there�s more. Mobile coma I�m only living. I�m in a mobile coma. Being without doing, or rather doing only what is required for being. Moving without becoming, only slowly becoming nothing. Sometimes too slowly, sometimes not. What it all comes down to, is that it all comes down. God's war �What God has torn asunder No man shall join together�. A lapse? A slip of the tongue? It was most certainly not. The phrase was purposely swung to set up God against god, good against the �evil ones�. The mantra of a union turned into a cry for guns, for crimson separation. Nothing The scene is thus: An old man is dying. No last-ditch, panic-stricken conversion to a belief in an afterlife. Just the conviction that this is all there is. This is it. This is all. He�s had it all. Even as a young man, as a child even, he always knew, at every moment in life, that he had had all already. And the only thing still to come was time. There is nothing to be had. How can paradise follow such a life? From nothing can only come nothing. Vanished The day I will disappear completely There won�t be anyone to forget me. Not even a grave to be recycled. Not even footmarks to be unwrinkled. I am the unregenerate I fail to fail graciously. My failures are my biggest failures. Rather than going fishing or something I insist that a book I published years ago will one day be a success. And, if not, that my next one will. I could be the Van Gogh of philosophy. Right now, I�m the head of a pig. Infant mortality My baby was born just before she died like a rainbow that ends in a dustbin. How can she be gone when she didn't leave? How can she have died when she didn't live? Life I don�t hate life. I just hate mine. To be wholly unseen I am anonymous. I have no name. No given name, no family name, no species name, no object name. At least not in the minds of anyone. Not even �passing shadow in the street�. The paradox of gloom If happiness can never be more than amnesia, delusion or idle hope, then what are you still doing here? Maybe it�s the warm feeling of being better and more true than the grazing herds desperately denying the foolishness of hope. But who is better off in the end? Choosing between cholera and the plague Those mouth-only smiles. Those phony �I�m fines�. Those �Could be worses�. All part of the pain he nurses. What for? Maybe tragedy is better than insignificance. Maybe his meaningless life could one day be turned into a memorable poem about a sad little guy. What we poets do We muddle the water to seem more profound. We undress our mind to look more sincere, but we only uncover emptiness and platitudes. We use the power of words because we lack the power of meaning. We think we make music without music but we make bullshit without bullshit. We use more images than a painter to hide how boring we would be if we would just say what we think. In short, we are a caricature of an artist. Take this poem as an example. (My thanks to F. Nietzsche). The fate of the onlooker I�m love�s collateral damage. I�m the hostage of sadness and I suffer from Stockholm Syndrome. I�m the self-fulfilling prophecy of death. What does all this mean? Who cares. All I know is this: �Si non e ben trovato, e vero�. Airport security pastiche �Please do not leave your life unattended. All lives left unattended will be removed� (or rather remove themselves). The invisible poem � �. This was an awesome verse, enough to drive you mad. Perhaps we might have known exactly what it said if white had not been used as color of the ink. It only shows itself to those who never blink. Mediocrity You never were someone who could have been somebody. You never did anything that could have been something. God knows you tried. Was it lack of ability? The world being too stupid to recognize genius? Or the gradual realization of cosmological futility? No one knows �cause no one cares. A normal working day in abnormal words During the after-night we dislocate ourselves en-masse to engage in our sustainability un-rest. This activity used to be much more than the perseverance of life, and often a matter of self-dignity to not a few. Now it�s an activity without any meaningful characteristics, a means for what comes afterwards, for what lasts until the next after-night. A world without regret No longer having to burry the hatchet after the corpses. But also no necessary improvements after our lapses. Nothing to do or to query. All our goals boredom eclipses. Two neighbors (quadruple limerick) Two neighbors once lived in Guandong And never seemed to get along. A branch across a fence, A slightly awkward glance: Enough to make it all go wrong. And so it came that either side, By chance and somewhat stupefied, Agreed that it was best To put it all to rest And terminate their silly fight. The method they agreed to test - �Agreed by chance!� the neighbors stressed: Cold-shoulder counterposed, Two postures well-composed, The chin turned up, inflated breast. One problem they could not discard: Ignoring is a skillful art. Build a wall, pay no heed, In order to exceed The other�s fervent disregard. February 29th On this day that shouldn�t have been I was reminded of all the things that shouldn�t have happened, although they happen on every other day as well. We can use this gift of time, this day nobody counted on, for something else than 0.27 percent extra divident, and make a new quadrennial holiday: the �Day of Shouldn�t� to mourn all the �shouldn�t have beens�. Employers won�t mind: year-on-year profit growth will not be affected. A poem to read and to forget I am the anti-I, the non-ego, the un-me. Take everything I own and I will compensate you with love. Take my love and I will gladly receive none in return. Kill me and I will make it easy on you and I will not have done anything to make it difficult for people to forget me. In fact, you may not have noticed, but I�m gone already. Call this an emergency This is the famous Apocalypse. Who would have thought that it comes in drips? The final drop will be melted ice. Our history we can summarize: From whence we came we now return. From water and back again we journe. The Queen (vulgar limerick) The tits of the Queen, since her coronation, have taken a downward orientation. It wasn�t their weight, nor did they deflate. �T was the shaking of hands without cessation. Mr. G. I�m faster than time. I will not die. My grave will break my fall. And when everything sinks into the dark, I will be brighter than light and lighter than weight and I will give heat to the earth. One Fish I love myself just enough to care about my unrequited love for the world. But there's only one fish in the sea and I'm dealing in air. Half-hearted despair The daily disappointment of waking up, The involuntary life that will not stop. The story of despair is silenced by the beating of the heart. It's really just comedy and hoax combined Inflicted on itself by the futile mind while the body keeps on going. The capital of punishment Mistaken religion, unlucky position, You may be spoiling someone's horizon Or crossing a trajectory in the streets of Bagdad. It�s better that your execution is extra-judicial rather than intra. At least you don't have to wait for the date and satisfy the spectators. Wrongful expectations Perhaps I misunderstood life Like you can misunderstand the blue sky And think it goes on forever And doesn't change into a black void.

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