I can only find two sensible reasons
behind poetry...
   well, more like three...
the aspect of voyeurism,
              but there's no real thrill
in that...
      the odd chance of seeing
language in free-fall...
                disintegrating,
     then the reintegration in a
comment section...
                      or what is best
depicted as an escape from
    the dormatory of social formality,
the sort of conventionality
that strangers allow themselves...
and less about the one howling
wolf in a pack of mutes...
   more like the in-between pacts
and settled grievances,
   slyly passing enigmas and...
     lit candles...
                  thirdly though...
the casuality of the whole "business"...
2 months!
   a book of this sort of stature
I could digest within a forgetable month
of listlessness...
     but at least with poems
there is no sense of achievement...
    zilch...
                    and that's a formidable
gesture of appreciation...
   perhaps a novel is this that and
the other... yet the persistent sense
of relief, upon completing it...
no more than a brick,
     amounting to a feeling of having
erected a mountain...
   hovering above it, a halo of:
well done... a heaving sigh of relief...
a pat on th shoulder and...
for some inexplicable reason...
   a sense of initiation into a cult
of John the Baptist...
                    why this sense of:
having accomplished something?
     it's almost unbearable to have to
strip down a novel
   in order to see the bare, minimum,
or rather, memorable enough
to be granted a scenographic
         translation...
                since when is reading these
bulging gluttonous texts,
not akin to reading X R A Y S?
               a poem a view
  a novel some absurd finalé...
    which becomes nothing more than
a miserable sigh of relief...
    funny that,
  a poem allows me to not
accomplish any major feat,
leaving me neither satisfied,
    nor unsatisfied...
         but certainly not relieved
akin to a novel, which,
        in its monarchical
    bulk sometimes nibbles at me
to express...
               saying that,
I wouldn't pay the sort of homage
that some poems receive
(esp. those using the rhyming aid)
    in being memorised...
odd, this medium,
      of perpetual motion...