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2005-02-04 | |
What we name our life
Is opposite to life itself,
And conditional moods state
Lying- it?s all right my friends.
I?m not interested in light any more.
Life? It?s just a slang in the wind.
But why is the tiny bee smiling
When dawn light pervades its wing?
Snail in my bowel hits the lime-
dead cell is resuscitated
by a grain of dill in a white
and a dumb macho whispers
Let?s make love tonight.
I?m a poet.
I do unreachable for a living.
I feel I have to write.
On my shit bedbugs,
Worms are giggling.
Body identifies itself with laziness.
Yawning boredom is what soul gives.
Why do I live?
Miserable moment of gold.
Demon?s laughter echoes in a neuron-tunnel.
In your collapsing dark hall
You are hoping in a deep thought- fountain.
I?ve been insane long enough
To be a genius, my son.
Or to tattoo brains-
And I can kill anyone.
What are you talking about?
Life is the novel of the substance.
Two spitting lips of neurons.
One sizzling baby mouth.
Foreword, epilogue, the end.
Speck of dust desires a ghost at night.
Past endures the present, snarling,
And a God faced Don Quijote
At his umpteenth whore
Pours a Red Bull on some ice.
Copyright Szab├│ P├ęter, 2oo
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