The springtime, she's too nice.
But this is only a glimpse- a glimpse.
The day goes in a circle, I see patterns,
but wait for Beauty to take its form.
The morning I go take pictures near the lighthouses,
tip the magicians on the street,
find a patch to sit on,
and see the grey hounds play games.
For a demented hour.
Impulse begets my nerves.
By noon, I drink soda around the cinnamon blocks, I see someone reply
to my poems, "Bah, you strange child, you naive fantasy!"
I typed back, "I’ll see you in New York, man!"
Yes- I am obsessed with you America, there it’s said.
I’m an angry child…
After I went to the putrid-pale terraces and saw my bohemian friend,
talked of his twelve cousins he had in his cocky country.
We talked of our visions, I made a pact with him, and gave a toast:
To the prescience of minds,
to dreams that stand still,
to our wavelengths of vision!
He then left, and I bore myself to ache in the biting afternoon, so I write some more lines;
I imagine the insides of the wrinkled boots of ragmen,
the loveless pregnant child with cigarettes,
the rebellious voyagers at sea,
the pensive Pope pleasing his saints,
and the begging men in love.
Then revelation strikes. It says, "Divine love tips the scales of wrath"
Oh man, o hell.
I sit in baked silence, clicked my boots, then wander the streets some more.
I’m as quiet as a dead man, I daydream.
If anything I’ll be like the jugheads,
the clowns, the lonesome folks, I'll play my part.
I have understood them through my dizzy youth, the fools,
like my kind, I sense the agonising hero in their foolish laugh,
their mediocre jobs, I squat in expectation, that you lads
inspire me to find Beauty on your lap!
Any American can count the measure of my love for dejected poems.
Born shy, I dissect my own distinction from the start,
I grow indifferent in the night-time.
A buzz, a stab to my synapse. To love, to dream, but I will never be able to let Love to fall on her knees!
It is knowledge mingled with eternity.
I walk faster. The dawns are loose and every sunset ghastly…
Many identities stir within me, my manic detriment lets me see landscapes
rise, pastures grow, garlands widen.
I’m near the café’s again.
I turn into a fangirl, like the eternal roleplays of damsels, because near the
evening streets, I hear girls talk of their wild lovers
in bathing suits, who gave her a Zelda flower, just now…
She squeezed it by her side. The couple looked like
pretty minerals grazing each other.
In minutes, the absurd night pierced my brain! I headed back home.
Moonlight nearly gave me a papercut.
As I walked I asked Spring to wait for me. It passed me as if I was dying.
I say, ‘As if a poet could be alien to springtime!’
The mood is set. Spring is reborn.
We were only seventeen.
We’re never serious. We’re overcome by it.
I wanted to scream.
What is this anchored burden? What are these horrendous sleeping pills? What is there left to do?
I must perform the farce of life. The music will play on.
Bah! Don't you see Ginsberg? Nobody writes these long-ass poems anymore....
I live among string fairytales and dreams, at fourteen, I ate the gospel with a black gulp.
I learned of Paul's teachings, Èros love,
and Lazarus redemption, the bishops of the diocese.
Should I throw them out the window too?
It's just another night,
Another dead man in the hospital,
another train to catch,
another wailing rant.
I arrive home. Sleep lays the last gentle blow on me.
Take it from me America, it's lovehate, I lovehate you…