sábado, 17 de agosto de 2013

the living dead

a poem is like a virus
neither living nor dead
it doesn't move
it doesn't breath
under heaps and heaps
of earthen material
under tons of rotten dust
all wrapped up
in crumbling yellow pages
it awaits

it then spreads
as soon as you touch it
it still doesn't breath at all
but it inspires you
and then disseminates

. . .

a poet is like a zombie
neither living nor dead
it moves but goes nowhere
its breath, long taken away
under heaps and heaps
of dead poet corpses
under tons of rotten dust
all wrapped up
in ragged yellow pages
babbling and gushing non-sense
it awaits

it then awakes
as soon as it smells
your fresh brain
it's inspired by your fear
but one bite suffices
and it disseminates
then all the babbling and gushing
starts to make sense

sexta-feira, 16 de agosto de 2013

segunda-feira, 12 de agosto de 2013

domingo, 11 de agosto de 2013

sábado, 10 de agosto de 2013

terça-feira, 6 de agosto de 2013