There is none but one certainty,
expressed by the simple ‘I am’—
everything else, like the nine extra floors,
contemplated with that achromatic I of mine,
is a possibility; though if I pretended
to be anything but a curmudgeon on a rainy day,
delighted that the gentle patter of raindrops
on the leaves of the tree outside my window
replaced the song of Malebolge rising
from the school yard across the street at lunch,
I would be lying.
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[…] not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things but do not understand the meaning of them.
Plato, Apology
Although not without its jocosities,
as well as its tragedies, life is mostly filled
with a farrago of inconveniences,
so, with a soft spot for magpies,
while mastering the implements
of idle chatter and flamboyance of gesture,
being the reserved ignoramus I am, I shrug
in front of it, just as I did
when I first met Platocrates—
not with resentment but relief.
After all, he gave me a dispensation
from intellectualism.
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When I was a boy, we often played
war—a bunch of kids in shorts
with Kalashnikov sticks. It was fun
until I read ‘Ravens and Crows
Will Peck Us to Pieces’.
When I was a boy, we often tracked
squirrels in the school yard
like the would-be Winnetou and Old Shatterhand,
still free of the consequences
of Indianertümelei.
When I was a boy, we never imagined
someone could say with a straight face,
‘I have never given up on life
because I’ve never embarked on it
in the first place’—yet I just did.
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They say you have to find
your inner child.
Well, mine is called Lupilu—
suitable for sensitive skin,
flushable,
fragrance-free—
kids’ moist toilet tissues,
a bag of which sits on top
of my toilet’s tank.
After all, I’ve always been
a sensitive man.
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It’s not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
E. M. Cioran, The Trouble with Being Born
How do you kill a man
who was created immortal
as a whim—
just like you once were—
to suffer;
for the seventh day
was his first one
in the watercolours
of the garden?
Never alone
until he opened his eyes,
the man was yet to know
but Eden’s meanders
he would wander now
and again—
the moss-lined floor
of a padded cell
and the out-of-reach cerulean
of a window.
He couldn’t have foreseen
the entangled
in the tedium of shape
change next to none
in that wretched yard
where even time
is a derivative entity.
Besides, knowledge was forbidden
to him
by an implacable decree.
And so he practised
breaking stupor, with breaks
for physiology and sleep.
But it was only
when he discovered
the sharp edges of obsidian
that the divine physician
brought him a rib
as a distraction
from carving his arms.
* * *
Grass as bed linen
won’t ever remember
what the preuve du sang
had to remain silent—
substitutes bear no tears,
so she didn’t cry.
It was a very revealing night—
one of many to come:
for her to withstand,
for him to endure
(as odd as that may sound),
before the age of small talk.
And though gravely mistreated
by tautologies,
they somehow managed
to keep their faith
in progress,
albeit with clashing definitions.
But the aeons I watched them,
something was amiss.
Only when I finally faced them
did I realise—no one had ever told them
there was life
beyond the panopticon.
* * *
The world of things
as they are in themselves
awakens a thought
born of disbelief—
whether it’s an eviction notice
or a stray stanza.
But what does one do
when one stands
in the middle of an orchard-
themed wallpaper with a bag
of Golden Reinette
and a supermarket receipt?
At least they appreciated
the home delivery—
the man and the woman
in the Eden suburb,
where mowing the lawn
and washing windows
is life’s liturgy.
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I like mornings
of overcast skies
when the excess sunlight
doesn’t hinder reading
by the window
of the Château de Silling—
a blushing quinquagenarian
falling victim to a hassle
most people call life.
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Looking at the painting by an unknown artist
that he had once bought at a flea market,
Mr Honk tried to understand why
the painter titled it The Square Root of Two,
even though it was clearly a Klauber triangle.
But then it reminded him of John’s opening line,
which, stripped of the divine references,
always made him ask,
‘How many oceans hold a tear?’,
knowing we had spent so long searching for the answer—
we had forgotten what the question was.
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What is it that keeps me attached
to the words? I live and learn
that Nature knows no sorrow—
maybe I shouldn’t either—
and has no use of ‘assuage’.
Perhaps the well-spoken have it easier,
but how would I know? After all, longing
is a wordless song.
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You said the living should not envy
the dead, and yet here we are, wondering
how many tomorrows today is worth,
trying to find comfort in the torment
or watching Grosse Pointe Blank together
because there’s always time to be
disappointed or ask what life in progress is.
But what if all that were nothing
but splitting hairs, only to realise
there was no hair to split to begin with?
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hidden pilcrow 