i find that poets fear to be politicised,
they rather be sitting on a brick
wall like a humpty-dumpty...
but what they're not afraid of is to be
a populist, a great disguise,
it means having an opinion watered
down and disguised by many people;
the shallow waters that are like
the gallows for their own views
so well disguised, that there aren't any;
the artistic output with the theme of the third *****
feeds me, to not act upon it - the enemy was overcome,
there's no real enemy in that category left to fight,
at least listen to the remnants of that horror,
give it closure and at least a marble gravestone.*

******, to me, was the last cry of
a wounded beast, that was the german
holy empire, paving way to to european
union: it knew it was wounded,
it knew it was to be slain,
but still it thought itself a superior
emblem of the continent, and it waged
such a war of horrid proportion
as to be forced to kneel to a continental ideal;
now britain wishes to take the reins,
and convene power in the safety
of its segregation by sea and air...
forgetting that the euro-tunnel is there,
and that tanks could suddenly emerge
rolling in.

but the fate of philosophers is worse,
after they die they become maxim-doctors,
maxim regurgitation is aplenty,
people quote them, nay, over-quote them,
they become broken / scratched records
constantly playing: what's my favourite quote,
what's my favourite quote, what's my favourite quote?
people quote them by only a quotable measure;
i couldn't comment on kierkegaard's prose antics,
or kant's or heidegger's... because i enjoyed
it too much... i can congregate like other people
around key concepts like people congregating
around the baker's shop when freshly
baked buns and breads are on sale...
but to be able to enjoy the prose of how the bread
it made, the banter of making the dough
and shoving it into the oven? i'll keep that to
myself... because you can quote a philosopher
to your wits' end... but you won't quote anything
from the conjunctions of prose once you read
the opus, you'll steer away from the path
to regurgitate quotation, and enter a path
of self-provocation that will lead you into
a narrative of your own: because there's hardly
a reason to quote and not live by it
for the sake of holding up a mirror...
as is well to be said: friendships do not illuminate,
warring illuminates, it's not so much a case
of distance, whereby you keep your friends
close, but your enemies even closer...
you keep neither... but in terms of distance...
where both are furthest away... enemies
illuminate, friends do not... with friends you
congregate and become idle, with enemies
you're on your own and when with yourself
you'll see that being idle in your own company
will only reveal a revelling in dumb sadness,
where there's no projection of future selves
as the dividend of days passed and divided
into equal measure of a constant, that is, after all,
merely your, self.