Some people think this thing will burn their eyes.
So brave they stare at the thinghood of the thing.
They say this stuff is a knife of pain and a cutting flame.
So brave they stare at the sharpness of its shape.
Some people think this object will blister their skin.
So brave they touch the surface of the structure.
They say this stuff is a sun of swelling suffering and a sea seething with steam.
So brave they touch the furnace of its frenzy.
Some people think this entity will poison their tongue.
So brave they taste the entirety of the whole.
They say this stuff is a gulp of gunpowder and a drop of death.
So brave they taste the viscosity of its violence.
– Ok. Here’s what we have. A ladder, a pair of shears, bandage, alcohol and a megaphone.
– What are we supposed to do with all that?
– They told me we need to sterilize the sky.
– Say what?!
– You know, remove its testes.
– You gotta be kiddin’ me. How the hell are we going to emasculate the sky?
– Well, we gotta get up there and figure it out.
– Are you serious? Get up where?
– There, between the sack and the butthole.
– Come on now, are you delirious?
– I’m just trying to figure out what the megaphone is for.
– Listen to me, there must be a mistake. It’s ludicrous, how are they asking us to…
– Ah! I get it, it’s to warn the people below when the nutsack is about to fall.
– Are you really buying into this? It must be a joke!
– Yeah, there’s not enough bandage in case we get massive hemorrhage.
– Here comes the manager. Let me have a word with him.
– Gentlemen, something preventing you from working?
– Listen, my buddy here says we have to castrate the sky. I believe there is some kind of mistake.
– Yes, there’s not enough bandage there in case you get massive…
– No wait, sir! That’s not my point. Could you be so kind as to indicate where does the sky keep its private parts?
– Mr. Kobket, I don’t have time to lecture you on the anatomy of the heavens. I am certain it was a requirement in your studies to read Copernicus’ work on the heavenly spheres.
– Unfortunately I have not, but it’s plain common sense that the sky lacks sexual organs. Am I missing out on something?
At this point the conversation enters anomalous levels of absurdity. We will not make preposterous demands on the credibility of the reader. Any educated person will recognize that Mr. Kobket was the only sane, one could as well say, grounded person of the pack. No one has ever observed, much less imagined, the sky swinging two gigantic azure balls over the horizon as it makes its way from daylight to twilight. No one has ever seen a rugged celestial bulge shrinking in timidity when exposed to the chilly currents of a winter gale. No one has ever seen two brilliant disks twitching as the sky ejaculates lightning and moans in thunder. No one has ever smelled the musk and sweat of glands rubbing day and night against the thighs of clouds. No airplane has ever become entangled in a web of ethereal filaments proceeding from the pubescence of the firmament. Not one, not in a thousand years, not in a thousand years.
The Character – A short monologic play
The character’s colleague
A café in Copenhagen. 1pm on a Thursday. Pablo sits
on a vintage sofa next to his wife. Across them sit
a pair of colleagues that discuss, in a profound tone,
the “science of marketing”.
[The Character gets up, apologizes to his colleague for taking up two hours of her time. Begins to put on his coat and scarf on.]
Pablo: [addressing his wife] What a character, that guy.
The Character: What did you just say?
Pablo: [impassive] That you’re quite a character.
The Character: What the hell is the problem with you?
Pablo: What? Me? What are you talking about? What do you know about my world, my conception of the world, my inner drama, my subjective constructs? Do you have any idea what I mean by the word ‘character’ and could you have suspected that I see the world as a stage where we are all characters that pretend to be this or that, and some of us are better at it, and some are portraying so bizarrely absurd roles, that they deserve being pointed out and addressed as “one-of-a-kind characters”? I am conscious that saying out loud, “what a character” may connote a derogatory sense to the word. I am aware that we pretend to be immersed in a kind of social nebula, where things appear the same to all members of the community. But I’m sorry to say, that is not the case, we don’t all share the same monotonous perceptual paradigm and I’ll keep calling you and everybody else characters, yes characters in…
[The Character and colleague exit café]
Pablo: … in the absurd drama of the earth.
It is a sad thing to be a poet.
Pick out a few strands of impermanence.
Sit and write in fever and sweat
on how the ash is sweet and immense.
But it is in vain
I tell you.
Nothing will remain
beyond the faded terrain.
For art’s sake. Can there be anything more pathetic?
All we do is lace pigment on fragments.
All this perversion of language, an erratic
falsification of meanings and judgments.
I am being honest finally.
I tell you.
Don’t even care how this ends really
because I’ve started to drink myself silly.
If the end
at a glance
a whole gamut streaked
about to be found
last feeble fleeting
piece of a second.
When all the pages
are stained with words,
but for a white slice of purity
gliding over the dark fallacies
The mesh, and the ink
has followed the trail
but this life
being an anthology of instants
has a silent museum
of shadows and vivid
When all meaning
is a shapeless mass
if in the end
at a glance
something is found;
a piece of motionless
in the straw
of the verb.
Husk of Art
Hang the veins of wings
Hurry through the vast futilities
Heights and heroes
Home in the plateau of chaos
Human Ocean of Being
Happiness as the mistake of ages
He and she and the mirror of passion
Hairy monster of tiny desires
Haunted origin of cloud
Hopelessly entangled in the
Horrible symptoms of my
The sadness of the suit –
the window shop
like a memory
carrying the scent
of an effete cosmos,
the wrinkles engraved
as snakes on a dead desert
the trapezoids existing
shadows in the skin
of the pattern,
and the sadness of the suit
saturated with the rust
of a regret, the shoes
of temple sacrifice-
the suit gray and occidental
ail and sober
as the soldier of ruin.
By government of limbs
empty networks of rules
my lost skull
finding fragments of hope
in books and lasting gulps
I remember the bishop
Berkeley, first time I read
his lucid portrayal of idealism
I saw myself as pigment
in god’s mind
there was Rimbaud
a daemon of callous dreams
beckoning the loving beasts
of my heart to get drunk
and fornicate with the chaos
vagueness is ubiquitous
when Cioran excommunicated
truth from reality
I leapt from definition to obscurity
like a child in mud fields
turning invisible by the camouflage of
alea jacta est
poetry was born
playthings of appearances
and the images started to gather
like a book of things that never
existed behind the universe
there was still coffee – regret –
futility and then Pessoa opened up the only truth
I ever believed in, he unwrapped it with casual
numbness, as mechanically as you take off a shoe:
life is a superfluous waiting for death
with no definite aim it definitely kills us
and whatever we say or don’t say
will never change a thing
so I write
in the penumbra of absurdity
as divertissement between sleeps,
all the same
in the involuntary currents of nothingness
drunk with the illusion of sensation,
I feign a soul
in laughter and despair
because of that obscene longing
poet & chasm.
21st century Poetry
the sensation of knowing
the congealing cement
our last coverture
and already alone
with a bullet of important birth
have the notes in the eyes
a melody of face and terror
have turned to the poetic
the overt sorrow
of crocodile skins
this task of surveying
bland vast infinite
words not even mountains
to rest the moon
on their slopes
death and terror
sustained by repetitious
creation, a blind fountain
speaking for the absence
representation having failed
we rely on the cruel instant