I have been put on hold,

like motorbike engine stalled at the traffic signal..

while the rider desperately waits for a green

i stall… bhatt bhatt bhatt bhatt bhatt

i shall tremble, vibrate and knock

on the cold cast steel block

i feel like my breath is slipping away

from the creeks of my hands

from the galleries in my heart

like wet sand flows through the fallen tree in the river

I feel like a floating debris on the river of time

and I float, violated and violently

stuck in the whirlpool of my imagination

and having no fucking clue to what to do with the holes in my soul

where my sorrows form eddies that creep in, implode and cry

and thus create a heart breaking tune that will turn red roses to black

or do I let the insects infest me 

and be a plateful of their  food

until i am no longer,and they move the fuck along

i am stranded between the decision to make

like a child with a handful of chocolate

and a mother that has her sight set straight

on to the child warning him not to gobble

i feel like my mere existence is not of the years

but in that split second, after the stimuli and before the stimulus

I sum the way I feel most of the time, nerxited

it’s a mix of nervous and excited

like when you are handed a new kind of alcohol

and the stench is , oh mother lord , so fucking bad

but the excitement at the thought of its taste, unexplainable

i am nerxited most  of the time

and my existence is limited to that period of time,

that little span of individual experience, nerxitement i call it

after the smell but before the taste

and puzzled i am for the vastness of time

for the wasteness of land that i see before me unexplored

and the falseness of belief

i can fit my life into small fragments of ‘ boksi’ ness of our imagination

when we become surreal and overcoming, extra powerful

i personally become ironman

but the mass seems to prefer batman !

i seem to do things without understand them

and why is it important to live, a long long long a looooong fucked up life

fucking your dear spouse like you’re in a rabbit hole and have no other fucking thing to do other than to fuck

why is it necessary to classify photographs and label one memory better than another

or much worse

call one day of you life more important than another

while the fact stares into your eyes like that yellow light on the traffic signal

right before turning green and setting your soul on fire

so that you could combust a little more

and run the fucking engine of disappointment and self-illusion that you most deliriously call a life

i am trying to make sense in these split seconds

after the burn but before the smoke

after the light and before the sound

after the squirt of that needle but before the pinch

after the meeting of eyes but before the kiss

after the end of the poem and before the applause

after landing and before immigrations

i pause myself

and ask

where has my life led me, and where have i led my life ?


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