i am / i’m going to die.
you are / you’re going to die.
he is / he’s going to die.
she is / she’s going to die.
it is / it’s going to die.
we are / we’re going to die.
they are / they’re going to die.
everyone is / everyone’s going to die.
i think you get the idea.
i have never asked to be born, yet
something holds me accountable
and i have already been punished
by the silence of my own children.
the bitter irony is that i did it myself.
i have always wanted to play it safe,
you know, life. the problem is that
the green man is just a convention
and what is left is a cup of mint tea
with a hint of self-pity and seaweed.
someone took a picture just before
you blew out the candles and it will stay
that way, your gentle smile suspended
in time and your eyes closed as you make
your wish. i am sorry i missed your birthday.
i have never been good at these things, but
i know you will not hold it against me.
there are always things to say and you are
not afraid to say them. there are always things
to forgive and you will never fail to forgive.
that is why, while listening to you, I am asking
you to forgive me for accusing you of naivety.
if i had been born innocent, maybe i would not
have become the cynic i am. but i still listen.
in the world of language,
word definitions are very
important. but what if you
already have a good definition
but no word, for example,
seagulls on the promenade
fighting over bags of garbage.
in fact, i think in this case
i might actually have one,
anthroposcene.
what would the world be like
if you were in charge?
i still remember that naive game
from primary school, but honestly,
if i were to play it now, my answer
would probably scare you.
imagine a librarian,
not the one with a smile
serving readers at the front desk,
but the strict archivist responsible
for the antique books hidden
at the back of the library.
now add to this an eremite
and you will get the picture.
i know, these are all
stereotypes, but in this case
they serve the purpose.
with that in mind, imagine
a world in lockdown,
just no pandemic. a world
where you can meet people,
but there are no restaurants,
bars and pubs. a world
where you walk because
there are no cars. a world
where a pet is an unknown
concept. a world where you
say what you mean and
you mean what you say.
imagine a world where
no one remembers
the philosopher king.
imagine the king
is a poet like me
or you.
i may rarely speak, but i listen
and if you ask about my silence,
what can i say? maybe i just do
not know the answer or maybe
i am too cowardly to face
the apology from my dearest
old fool as if i were one
of the five hundred.
but if i know i will write
a poem.
i am not a misogynist,
i was just married once,
so stop asking me why
i do not write love poems
like you never asked me
why i do not write about
fairies. there is no love,
only mutual dispositions.
there are seven days a week: monday,
monday, monday, monday, monday,
after-monday, before-monday. i took
care of them all with just one stroke
of my waterman, and now quietly
tossing the wilted apples in the basket,
i try to see the wrinkles on the worn
face in the mirror, as a scratched record
on an old turntable fills a shabby room
with a crackling sound that was once
the music of one of the mighty five.
if only dust dancing in a single ray
of sunlight piercing through a broken
shutter could still sustain the illusion
of life.
it takes a while to become facetious,
as it is said that we are born innocent,
and only with the passage of time
that rains a cappella all the inevitable
regrets take on a vital touch of patina.
hidden pilcrow 