Surfer Grandson Smoker
Manager Traveler Father
Daughter Cook Teacher
Mother Reader Lover
Trainer Son Painter
Volunteer Exhibitionist
Santa Claus
member of a fishermen club
tomorrow
or you name it
if you still have air
we left ourselves outside
alone with these explosive days
blind witnesses
have buried their faces
into the desert of time
the concentration of pain
remains a universal constant
the world is a helpless arena
of master plan illusions
what shall I become
or what shall be consumed of me?
and these rupture faults
body-dynamite against ego-dynamite
culture crushing nature versus
nature crushing culture
the soul famine
in the book
of unknown faces
we were all just enlivened cells once
while we feast in our blood
the discreet continuities
remain hidden
identity encapsulated
in the wave length
of supernovas egos
poetry is left with this
apparent nonsense
camomile turns into laughter
and the pride of butterflies
deserves better
this rhythm consumes us
faster than the speed of dreams
the speed of thought
the speed of forgetting
how our mothers
were never healed
to be or not to be simple
that’s a question
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
Surfer Grandson Smoker
Manager Traveler Father
Daughter Cook Teacher
Mother Reader Lover
Trainer Son Painter
Volunteer Exhibitionist
Santa Claus
member of a fishermen club
tomorrow
or you name it
if you still have air
we left ourselves outside
alone with these explosive days
blind witnesses
have buried their faces
into the desert of time
the concentration of pain
remains a universal constant
the world is a helpless arena
of master plan illusions
what shall I become
or what shall be consumed of me?
and these rupture faults
body-dynamite against ego-dynamite
culture crushing nature versus
nature crushing culture
the soul famine
in the book
of unknown faces
we were all just enlivened cells once
while we feast in our blood
the discreet continuities
remain hidden
identity encapsulated
in the wave length
of supernovas egos
poetry is left with this
apparent nonsense
camomile turns into laughter
and the pride of butterflies
deserves better
this rhythm consumes us
faster than the speed of dreams
the speed of thought
the speed of forgetting
how our mothers
were never healed
to be or not to be simple
that’s a question
