The deaf man has no idea why the musician practices until his fingers bleed…
And the blind man has no idea why the painter drafts until his eyes weep…
And you have no idea why I think until my brain screams for mercy…
Is it tragedy or boredom
That stops him from calling me?
Fuck it!
I’m hanging on with bloody fingernails!
Hanging onto spiderwebs!
And if this sounds cliche,
It’s because life is cliche!
Who isn’t born as a result of a fuck?
(Except for the several million born in test-tubes!)
Who doesn’t eat and shit tons of waste?
(Except for those who die young!)
Who can live without air,
Or sleep?
Who fucks as often as they like?
(Except for the whores of the world!)
Who fucks the people they like,
More than several times a lifetime?
Whose life isn’t cliche?
Who never hangs with bloody fingernails
Onto slippery cobwebs?
(Except for those who die young! Very young!)
I found true love.
I’m of that minority.
I’ve had my heart shattered.
I’m of that majority.
I will die too,
But probably when and how I choose to.
And that makes me as immortal as we can ever hope to be!
Oh! And I caught my tail!
And lived to tell the tale.
In great detail!
And with beautiful ornamentation.
Perhaps my life isn’t that cliche after all!
When you learn,
That you’re the very thing,
You were raised to destroy,
You either perish,
And dissolve,
Or you become rock.
I became rock.
The precious kind.
Ezra Pound’s
Gettin’ around!
Czech Romance is much like Italian herring,
You don’t hear much about it.
The pleasure of fully being myself,
Far outweighs any possible pleasure,
Attained by appealing to others.
Personalities are like aromas,
You either like ‘em or you don’t.
Not much room for academia here.
My strange name,
Which will become part of many languages*,
Sometime in the tricky future,
Is currently just a collection of obscure sounds,
Which raise no eyebrows,
Lower no zippers,
And barely get any calls returned.
* In English my genre will probably be called ‘Poesy’ (a mix between Po and heresy, and unlike the traditional word ‘poesy’, it will be spelled with a capital P). Others’ works done in my genre will probably be referred to as ‘Poetic’ (with the stress on the first syllable), and followers of my ideas will most likely be called ‘Poetics’ (again, with the stress on the first syllable). I’m very much hoping against ‘Poesque’ or ‘Poean’, but I realize that I have no say in the matter.
I’ve never met a woman,
As beautiful as Brahms’ Requiem.
But I certainly like fucking some of them,
While listening to it.
Completing a work of art,
Is often tantamount,
To coming to terms,
With its myriad imperfections,
And your own limitations,
Which they will forever imply…