The Truce

The only thing I care to give is an argument, it seems to be the only worthy energy that could displace the agonising niceties of my New Vague City daze ― I much prefer being on a boat in the Mediterranean, touching fish by the tail, licking salt off the rocks or the shoulder of a woman whose smile could alone decapitate me with a number of songs instantly surfacing every time I look at her, ready to be plucked, oh sweet imminence for your sake I have been hidden away in the caverns of imagination; illicit and advertised as a disease for the masses ― here I lie with an anchoring feet and a heavy soul gnawed by the sawtooth manifestation of witless, night after night dragging of crying expectation for something instantly recognisable and therefore remote as an act of life.

I feel the necessity of a microphone permanently attached to my mouth as a pacifier. I want to issue my interviews in the form films and songs, a lot of songs to be injected in the electric veins of the world. After all I must make a conscious dent on the steel of everyone’s boredom; the room with no view or temperature.

This fucking city is the coffin of romance, nailed by long haired bastards.

I am not eating properly this week. I do not speak of the pharaoh in my shoes.

I don’t know who belongs to my generation, but I assure you they are as boring as unused socks. Don’t know where I fit in the grand scheme of things, but I find a great purpose of being among people who don’t even bear the slightest depth of a slit to cast a shadow on the pavement. Nevertheless, your essence is what I can grasp, made up of by the same stuff as stars and galaxies. Does it ever occur to you as well that cosmologists are a bunch of twonks still referring to the big bang as ‘the moment of creation of everything that came into existence’? A statement which doesn’t hold any mathematical equation of certainty, because it bears two incomprehensible values: everything and existence.

The brain is a three dimensional lump. The mind exists! Even though science cannot account for the place where it lives; beyond the threshold of the physical, electricity of neurones and their atoms conjure up our riches in a dimension that is created from the same element as time. How would a scientist know about this?

Any starry eyed child would ask the same penetrating question; what is outside of space?

My morality is still as caustic as any old desperation of a nondescript instance like this one. Permanently fixed at the peak of an oscillating awareness. Some girls come to mind and I push the door.
I don’t think I was ever properly loved by the ones I pick, as rarely as an epidemic. Try to explain someone why I don’t listen to bands, why there is not a speck of truth in American movies or accents. Who could ever stand a chance to be taken seriously if their mimicry is created on television? Individual clones of society, genres of people that make up nations. I uphold anyone who can prove the claim of their identity without a region. Thousands of years of sleep. If God blesses America, what happens to the rest of the world?

There are a lot of wankers in my way. One of which is the standard vacuum of short span of attention. That’s the bladder of this gasping modernity, shackled in the corner of oblivion.

Nowadays, there seem to be more artists than actual people. It requires an instinct to ignore fickle virtues. For that reason, I am a poet.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not a pretender. I do not have anything other than an ancient dedication to remain naked to remind you; human forms the truth = human form is the truth.


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