the fucking truth

the truth poemA wild band of maniacs
command me

I am hostage
given the liberty
to think
but not to feel

they feed me futures
the bones of tasks

I am hunted
with a shield of invisible ideas
I am naked to the truth

hurting by the clouded horizon
I poeticize my hypocrisy

I am of thieves
after masks I’d like to kiss

I’m heading towards madness
together with my wild pack of beasts

Nihilistic Poetry

If…

If stories had some sort of reality I would narrate my dissolution amongst the heavenly bodies; if fantasies were not merely fictions I would vanish careless in the wind; if words were not all vain and empty I would tell everyone that life is a bubble of dream and we are nothing but footprints on sand.
If changing the world meant anything I would form a new republic; if truth existed I would refute the philosophers; if god existed I would be fearless to leave this world…
 
On my 26th birthday. January 7th 2008

Confession of Horror

 

I am afraid of the world

I am terrified by its size

                   Its unpredictability

I fear its mouth

It’s going to swallow me whole

 

I am surrounded by a wasteland of panic

I am going to perish in agony

                             Alone

 

What can I do but wait

                   Endure

Survive the intense torture

 

This is rape!

The world is raping me to death

 

I am paranoid of the Chaos

                   I have no control…

A prospect of madness

 

Would you call me mad if I can confess of a certainty in the prospect of the future, even when I fully acknowledge that the vicissitudes of Time can easily outsmart the most rigorous mathematical prediction; yes I was sure that in ten years’ time I would be looking back to this very same day – today – as the fantasy of a naïve child’s imagination that mistook the nature of reality for that of a game: haven’t I erred in my conviction that life is best lived through the transformation of its contents into those poetic representations that plunge me into an ecstatic state of mind, in other words, in trying to grasp life by its tail by scrutinizing every tottering thread of Time had I not missed the meaning of reality by inspecting it too minutely, too unsparingly as to leave out of the range of my investigations the global experience of existence?

I saw in that Delphic vision a day when all these conglomerates of experience that surround me today would be no more than the debris of a vanished Past, a trivial irony that would have no more power to excite my cynical laughter. That day will come when I rent a paltry hotel room in Belgrade, killing my time with a lousy inexpensive hooker and when night comes I will stare despairingly at the ceiling wondering if abandoning my youthful delusions was a wise choice, since by then I would have purged myself of any prospect in the road of human creativity and would be living in the pulsation of every naked minute, suffering like every other human being in the claws of the beast of existence. And every so often I would glimpse outside my window to see a crumbling civilization and I shall utter words such as these:

 

Withered petals gliding down
Breaking from their cone
Into scattered puddles in the street
Let each petal leave my rose
Each desire run away
All sorrow, regret and concern
Vanish below –
What is it to me that we must die
Why should I carry the burden
Of Fate’s indifference to us?