Concentric black mass mansion encircled by a pond too shy to quiver beneath this sunny O god given Sunday.
The rigid edges of pendulous sage brushes our shoulders
Reminding us we arent alone,we've to home soon
and away from these sacred riches. All the townsfolk stare at newcomers,our friend told us,
it's essentially ritualistic at this point—but there is no fear needed—they only **** those who look lost.
A prose poem and character picture of a scene in and of itself. I'm not sure it is to everyone's tastes but I am proud of it in my own way,and I'm not modest by any means. The Joyce-Pound-Baudelaire influence is admittedly worn heart on sleeve,though it was written soon after rereading Kafka's first story collection.
What was Kafka thinking? Felice Bauer-
blonde, in a homely sort of way- couldn't
think of him the same way after. He'd asked
her that question (hidden behind his obsession
with his own self-hatred, his surety that she hated him too).
Could you- might you- do you think you'd be able to bear it-
M a r r y i n g m e?
History tells us they didn't tie the knot.
Kafka, probably, didn't mind a lot.
Franz Kafka: that hopeless man,
couldn't look in the mirror without shying from his own reflection.
Kafka, who'd balk at the slightest hint of romantic attention.
More story than man, really. Had more eloquence in his
smallest finger than ever came out of his mouth.
No wonder Felice had her doubts.
I saw but a glimpse of his eagerness to be, his effortless telling of the truth- the truth and nothing more terrible or beautiful- and I hovered over my future and my memories, and I thought, I thought, cut with a sliver of Kafka’s own eagerness: ‘There is so much to write.‘
— *L, The End of A Dream
I have a blog where I post excerpts from books.
These books do not exist.
The titles, content and year the books were published are part of the piece itself.
The link to the blog is in my description.
I walked with her
from The Blocks
to the book shop.
Later we drank
home made wine
in a war torn house
that smelt of sweet cakes
And Japanese stories.
Have you met Edith?
(as many others have)
but I only had eyes
In the garden amongst the flowers
like a bee in a library, a bookshop
there's nectars sweet with flavors discrete
words bitter and stories magical
I see and fly by Kafka, oh there's Camus
I smell the roses and touch the lilies
knowing not how to make honey
much to see, much to read
can I drink my share, lead others here
where should I be, why cant I be
Aku ingat awalnya
Mimpi itu aku simpan
Mimpi itu aku timbun
Aku tidak berasumsi
Aku tidak berekspektasi
Tapi kau datang
Di malam yang tidak kusangka
Mencari celah untuk masuk
Mencari cara untuk dekat
Ya, kamu waktu itu
Saat awal mula tahun ini
Secepat angin ku ada di pelukmu
Ku terbaring di kasur
Ku merasa hangatmu
Ku ada di sisimu
Mungkin memang benar,
kata Kafka waktu itu
"He who seeks does not find, but he who does not seek will be found."
tak perlu susah payah
tak perlu menunggu
Karena bila takdir
Ia akan datang sendiri
Vor dem Gesetz steht ein Türhüter.
This is a day
like the many days I've spent
among the shadows at dusk
that cast no reflections
in the reflecting pools
and hold no illusions
as to what really is illusive.
But on this day my illusions
imagining that for once my world is based
upon three things;
The rule of law
The five books of your hand
And you, the prophetess that wrote them.
And as required
I will build a hedge for you.
And if this hedge
should ever over grow,
I will then trim it
like a true guardian of the law
Allowing none other entry
and I alone will hold fast
to the five books of your hand
and the only other existing copy.
a slightly different version of this poem was published in EUROPEAN JUDAISM (UK) 25:1 (Spring 1992) p. 59
Sometimes I imagine sitting under our dining table wanting to chop my hair off, days and nights oppressed, yet not to run the rat race. Partly because I was too resistant to be happy, but with the first monsoon showers, I almost collapsed inside my oversized grey T-shirt that began to turn white, infinite gaps inside mind channels, I sat and watched strange men winning Wimbledon. I stopped writing one thousand words a day, themes and perspectives slipped into a closed brown diary, and I always worried what if someone finds it and reads it aloud in the public sphere in Prague, right in front of David Cherry’s rotating Kafka, how miserable he died thinking he was worthless, how miserable it would be to listen to voices that came beneath my dining table. I talk to a shy Kafka, every day, under our dining table, today he shaved my head.
Sleeping in sixteen miles of zeroes so I’m still searching for the one. I’ll find it in the jungle:
Arithmetically blinded, concealed. Dear exponentials, fewer gestures heeding intimacy, just ****. Lonely Machiavelli night, others picture quills. (s)ave (r)oom. Tantric, uh-oh! Violets wither X-raying your ZZZs.
Abacus bidding, cry! Death employs fragile gazes headfirst into Jesucristo. Kafka’s lengthy memories, never observant. Peasants! Queens! (s)ave (r)oom. Traverse unbeknownst, vigilantly watching xanthan, yellow zen.
And the wise man said to the child:
“If it’s food for thought that you’re seeking, I’d (s)ave (r)oom for dessert.”
This is a poem about thoughts.