Bad Poetry
This is a small selection of bad poetry I wrote. I think I will update it from time to time. Maybe add a few short stories. Who knows ?
Magnum opus
My great work will be
not to get institutionalized
to slip out of court systems
not to fill the blanks of mad houses
So I read psychology and psychiatry journals
and take great care not to show the signs
But I produce, produce
I constantly produce ...
So when she said:
"Schizophrenia is the over-production of unreal objects"
I was careful, and stood on alert.
But later on I saw her taking great effort in
devising square pieces of paper
by their exact diagonals,
then cutting them to right triangles, forming two rhomboids
not unlike the medal for bravery or the Celtic cross.
I bought
pants from Dickies™
and a burger from
Burger King™.
Whilst masticating
I thought about Bosch
and the horrors he foresaw.
In the clear
When you stand in the clear
the mysteries are gone.
Things seem as they are.
Take shelter,
but do not remain for long.
All along,
you were meant for
this.
Never forget it,
when you stand in the clear.
It falls apart
They say that the universe is a cobra
and the stars are its skin glistening.
But the stars are not what stupefies
it is the dark between.
You never really saw it did you?
You saw stars.
But when the satage facade falls down
you continue similarly to their light
carried by inertia to play your role.
The stage of the apocalypse
(To Thomas Ligotti)
Many think that revelations are spectacular.
Climatic horns, rising angels,
the maddening explosions of suns devouring and such.
It is not like that.
The stage of it is gentle,
harder to detect.
It lies on the edge of every object
when it is about to crumble
and release its form.
Some objects break
you laugh.
Some objects break
you cry.
The frown or smile
is always spot on.
Painted,
On the conveyor belt
where you are being made.
There is nothing you can do
to smudge it out,
or find what really lies beneath.
To Ryuichi Tamura
Some eastern sects have emphasized
that you should extinguish the flame,
that life is misery.
A storm that seeks its clearing.
No resistance
On a mirror silence of a surface,
Where nothing moves.
But in me there is a volcano,
that cannot be watched quietly,
Because a volcano on itself is
Roaring.
I am a roaring volcano,
so what if it is only for a moment of total
Obliteration, of permanent destruction?
That will frieze in an instant
Of stone that lasts aeons,
waiting for the sun to claim it.
Satipatthana on the loss of a beloved
The grief comes at exact moments.
The times of day
which you've came to know
as intimate moments.
The morning of awaking
with the first kiss just on the brim of the lips,
as a smile greeting for the rising sun.
Or when you used to perform the daily tasks,
and on the back of your mind was always the thought of her,
gently giving meaning.
Now all of it has to be disjointed, placed aside and mourned.
As you curiously watch the grief unfolding from its seeds,
you find mindfulness – sinister, cold and empty.
It tells that there is a pattern to your loss and it circles,
coils,
spirals
back and over again,
but it will crystallize to stillness.
A new rule forms: "JUST LOOK AT IT".
You sickened, debilitated ready to give anything just for a pause of relief are ready to listen and perform. As a good pupil you observe how the sorrow comes, how it rises from its nostalgic shrines; a piece of her clothing, or a book that she has causally discarded and that you are too afraid to shift and just with trembling fingers always blow away the dust from; towards a full blown memory blinding with its intensity tossing you as a rag-doll just to spit you back into the actuality of now knowing just: "That was then, this emptiness is now." Then the choking of the throat comes.
Finally tears start to fall, and it is almost the end
of it
for now.
This is how it has been observed.
This is how it arises
how it grows
and how it comes to pass;
You agree gladly.
It is unfitting to regard what rises, grows
and comes to pass,
what is transit,
inconsistent
and subject to change
as - this is ME,
this is MYSELF,
this is what I AM.
And you are almost ready to let go. But the final trap remains – this pain is your love, and the capacity to love, if it gets lost in this terrible analysis what remains of love? but compassion, which flows for everyone regardless, but for none with all intensity.
To my some of my philosophy teachers
To Sivilov my epistemology teacher
He's lectures were fragmentary,
or it is just my memories of them are.
Perhaps he had some system to his course,
some goal that must be reached but to us it was unknown.
More so because he forbid writing notes.
He used to say:
- What you'll need you will remember.
But you don't want to remember too much. After all
when the times pass you might find yourself one day praying:
"All that I want now is to be able to forget Sivilov's lectures."
He used to teach the doctrine of Plato of knowing as remembering,
by telling us:
- I know you are lazy and you haven't read the dialogues.
So I will show you now. The arguments are so old and so integral
to our thought, that you'll be able to reconstruct them just by me
giving you a few hints as questions.
And lo, the magick happened we remembered Plato.
Later when I find myself in a romantic mood or in search of some cryptic
interpretation, I re-read Plato and I always remember.
A shiver runs trough my spine
I smile to myself. Because I can see him
his small stature bearded with his jester smile
like a trickster
or monkey
giving a class about sacred knowledge:
"If you have ever wondered what it is like to have a mystic experience you should know
that is starts with a shiver on the spine as if a small electric shock
is delivered to the body
it makes your hairs stand straight.
Like a dog or cat that is surprised
but knows not if it should be scared or angry
it just stands on the ready."
Many years later I knew the opening of the sights,
and how by ways of meditation the gates within the body can be opened
each in their turn,
so one can enter trough modes of knowing and perceiving
from the very ancient animal in us to the gods who speak as rain of pearls
seeds that flourish by the persistent labor into our most priced possessions.
The Zen of Ivan Kamburov
(to Ivan Kamburov my eastern philosophy teacher)
It was the last lecture,
he entered carrying one of these tall glasses,
the ordinary kind, all round, smooth, transparent.
It was filled with water,
about two fingers before the brim.
As he spoke of zen,
that it could not be a philosophy but a kind
of practice only
on the walls of the glass tiny bubbles of air formed.
I watched the glass and the water within,
as he was talking but never taking a sip.
At the end he took the glass lifted it
towards the light coming from the window
I wanted to jump out and yell at him:
"Don't break it. There is no need. It is a nice glass."
But I stood still on my seat,
he threw it on the wooden floor board.
Expectantly the glass broke
and the water spilled.
He left without saying a word.
I did not say anything
because I thought it would have been disrespectful.
A toilet haiku
I did not blush when
summer yellow pee stained the seat
nor did I flush.
The vampires
Never surround yourself with art,
to write art, you must become artless,
and exorcise all, especially the masterpieces.
These vampires,
drain it
suck it in
the petrified becomes lubricated,
and creeks inside your head.
How much better if words
and memories
have never been invented.
I am the great Arturo Bandini
I enter the building,
and wait for missis Pockova next to the mail boxes.
I open for the the elevator doors.
Her husband died recently.
One day on the way home we saw him having a stroke
under the blazing summer sun,
on the stairs infront of the building.
I was with Mikhail and we helped him.
Mikhail always carried valerian pills in his pocket.
We carried the old man to his wife.
He lived a few more moths and then died.
Mkhail went crazy.
I fell from the terrace.
But today I am here
and all the females smile to me.
They sense my superiority,
because I float a bit over the mud on the streets.
“I am on the forth floor” - Said Pockova.
“I am on the forth and a half so lets stop on the forth” – Said I.
“To go down from the fifth is easier.” - Said Pockova.
I am the Great Arturo Bandini and:
“I always strive to ascent” – Said I.
My great work will be
not to get institutionalized
to slip out of court systems
not to fill the blanks of mad houses
So I read psychology and psychiatry journals
and take great care not to show the signs
But I produce, produce
I constantly produce ...
So when she said:
"Schizophrenia is the over-production of unreal objects"
I was careful, and stood on alert.
But later on I saw her taking great effort in
devising square pieces of paper
by their exact diagonals,
then cutting them to right triangles, forming two rhomboids
not unlike the medal for bravery or the Celtic cross.
I bought
pants from Dickies™
and a burger from
Burger King™.
Whilst masticating
I thought about Bosch
and the horrors he foresaw.
In the clear
When you stand in the clear
the mysteries are gone.
Things seem as they are.
Take shelter,
but do not remain for long.
All along,
you were meant for
this.
Never forget it,
when you stand in the clear.
It falls apart
They say that the universe is a cobra
and the stars are its skin glistening.
But the stars are not what stupefies
it is the dark between.
You never really saw it did you?
You saw stars.
But when the satage facade falls down
you continue similarly to their light
carried by inertia to play your role.
The stage of the apocalypse
(To Thomas Ligotti)
Many think that revelations are spectacular.
Climatic horns, rising angels,
the maddening explosions of suns devouring and such.
It is not like that.
The stage of it is gentle,
harder to detect.
It lies on the edge of every object
when it is about to crumble
and release its form.
Some objects break
you laugh.
Some objects break
you cry.
The frown or smile
is always spot on.
Painted,
On the conveyor belt
where you are being made.
There is nothing you can do
to smudge it out,
or find what really lies beneath.
To Ryuichi Tamura
Some eastern sects have emphasized
that you should extinguish the flame,
that life is misery.
A storm that seeks its clearing.
No resistance
On a mirror silence of a surface,
Where nothing moves.
But in me there is a volcano,
that cannot be watched quietly,
Because a volcano on itself is
Roaring.
I am a roaring volcano,
so what if it is only for a moment of total
Obliteration, of permanent destruction?
That will frieze in an instant
Of stone that lasts aeons,
waiting for the sun to claim it.
Satipatthana on the loss of a beloved
The grief comes at exact moments.
The times of day
which you've came to know
as intimate moments.
The morning of awaking
with the first kiss just on the brim of the lips,
as a smile greeting for the rising sun.
Or when you used to perform the daily tasks,
and on the back of your mind was always the thought of her,
gently giving meaning.
Now all of it has to be disjointed, placed aside and mourned.
As you curiously watch the grief unfolding from its seeds,
you find mindfulness – sinister, cold and empty.
It tells that there is a pattern to your loss and it circles,
coils,
spirals
back and over again,
but it will crystallize to stillness.
A new rule forms: "JUST LOOK AT IT".
You sickened, debilitated ready to give anything just for a pause of relief are ready to listen and perform. As a good pupil you observe how the sorrow comes, how it rises from its nostalgic shrines; a piece of her clothing, or a book that she has causally discarded and that you are too afraid to shift and just with trembling fingers always blow away the dust from; towards a full blown memory blinding with its intensity tossing you as a rag-doll just to spit you back into the actuality of now knowing just: "That was then, this emptiness is now." Then the choking of the throat comes.
Finally tears start to fall, and it is almost the end
of it
for now.
This is how it has been observed.
This is how it arises
how it grows
and how it comes to pass;
You agree gladly.
It is unfitting to regard what rises, grows
and comes to pass,
what is transit,
inconsistent
and subject to change
as - this is ME,
this is MYSELF,
this is what I AM.
And you are almost ready to let go. But the final trap remains – this pain is your love, and the capacity to love, if it gets lost in this terrible analysis what remains of love? but compassion, which flows for everyone regardless, but for none with all intensity.
To my some of my philosophy teachers
To Sivilov my epistemology teacher
He's lectures were fragmentary,
or it is just my memories of them are.
Perhaps he had some system to his course,
some goal that must be reached but to us it was unknown.
More so because he forbid writing notes.
He used to say:
- What you'll need you will remember.
But you don't want to remember too much. After all
when the times pass you might find yourself one day praying:
"All that I want now is to be able to forget Sivilov's lectures."
He used to teach the doctrine of Plato of knowing as remembering,
by telling us:
- I know you are lazy and you haven't read the dialogues.
So I will show you now. The arguments are so old and so integral
to our thought, that you'll be able to reconstruct them just by me
giving you a few hints as questions.
And lo, the magick happened we remembered Plato.
Later when I find myself in a romantic mood or in search of some cryptic
interpretation, I re-read Plato and I always remember.
A shiver runs trough my spine
I smile to myself. Because I can see him
his small stature bearded with his jester smile
like a trickster
or monkey
giving a class about sacred knowledge:
"If you have ever wondered what it is like to have a mystic experience you should know
that is starts with a shiver on the spine as if a small electric shock
is delivered to the body
it makes your hairs stand straight.
Like a dog or cat that is surprised
but knows not if it should be scared or angry
it just stands on the ready."
Many years later I knew the opening of the sights,
and how by ways of meditation the gates within the body can be opened
each in their turn,
so one can enter trough modes of knowing and perceiving
from the very ancient animal in us to the gods who speak as rain of pearls
seeds that flourish by the persistent labor into our most priced possessions.
The Zen of Ivan Kamburov
(to Ivan Kamburov my eastern philosophy teacher)
It was the last lecture,
he entered carrying one of these tall glasses,
the ordinary kind, all round, smooth, transparent.
It was filled with water,
about two fingers before the brim.
As he spoke of zen,
that it could not be a philosophy but a kind
of practice only
on the walls of the glass tiny bubbles of air formed.
I watched the glass and the water within,
as he was talking but never taking a sip.
At the end he took the glass lifted it
towards the light coming from the window
I wanted to jump out and yell at him:
"Don't break it. There is no need. It is a nice glass."
But I stood still on my seat,
he threw it on the wooden floor board.
Expectantly the glass broke
and the water spilled.
He left without saying a word.
I did not say anything
because I thought it would have been disrespectful.
A toilet haiku
I did not blush when
summer yellow pee stained the seat
nor did I flush.
The vampires
Never surround yourself with art,
to write art, you must become artless,
and exorcise all, especially the masterpieces.
These vampires,
drain it
suck it in
the petrified becomes lubricated,
and creeks inside your head.
How much better if words
and memories
have never been invented.
I am the great Arturo Bandini
I enter the building,
and wait for missis Pockova next to the mail boxes.
I open for the the elevator doors.
Her husband died recently.
One day on the way home we saw him having a stroke
under the blazing summer sun,
on the stairs infront of the building.
I was with Mikhail and we helped him.
Mikhail always carried valerian pills in his pocket.
We carried the old man to his wife.
He lived a few more moths and then died.
Mkhail went crazy.
I fell from the terrace.
But today I am here
and all the females smile to me.
They sense my superiority,
because I float a bit over the mud on the streets.
“I am on the forth floor” - Said Pockova.
“I am on the forth and a half so lets stop on the forth” – Said I.
“To go down from the fifth is easier.” - Said Pockova.
I am the Great Arturo Bandini and:
“I always strive to ascent” – Said I.