Ripe

There has to be 

a starting point.
A reference.
We choose our wording 
yet we can’t stick to it 
because every day is different. 
And the letters represent 
far more than their shape 
suggests. 
So without the singular beginning 
there is no consequence 
nor any continuation 
or aftermath. 
We start at 
a
and end at 
z.
In every cycle that we produce.
We breathe in
and out. 
All in all.
Always.
There have been 
no exceptions 
even in this here absence 
of order. 
Everything proves irregular. 
Perverse sometimes.
That is why 
I opt for atypical contortions 
of the will. 
It is a lot closer 
to a more natural form of 
sanity.
Something that dares step away 
from this incoherently fabricated 
muck. 
Yes I too am still contributing 
through this tirade.
Where can the mind  
ultimately break away.
Where can desires bloom into maturity 
instead of staying caught in this 
underdeveloped
carnal state.
Where can a more personal conclusion 
ultimately get 
formulated. 
In the end
I dare say 
a = n = y.

Multitudes of something

I’m still talking to you.
Even though I have long established 
you are not really real.
You are a severed thought.
A strange perfection that rises from 
the far worse than imperfect components of me.
It’s like you’re sitting 
at a table with me.
Something normal. 
Reassuring me that 
I’m not losing my mind. 
But that kind of confirms 
that I am.
You are not a women, 
nor a man. 
You are not a lowly beast,
nor divine interference. 
You are nothing and omega. 
You are what only comes out 
when I’m alone. 
You are that voice. 
On the far side of 
the bounds of reason. 
There is an abnormal need 
for recurrence
to capture and store the nature of you. 
For those moments when I need you most.
When I’m not alone anymore 
but I want to feel alone. 
My conditioning program.
Repeating gestures 
patterns
moves
steps
stares
numbers
letters
…
Routines really.
Things to calm me down 
when my crusade for new theorems 
won’t rest. 
When the pounding controls me 
instead of the other way round. 
When I have lost all 
but my mission. 
In my private moments of seclusion 
I’m building a set of applicable memorabilia 
to sweeten the acidic nighttime. 
An arsenal of resistance. 
A defense through overexposure.
An immunity.
And when I’m all pumped up and tough
ready to endure and defy
you’ll speak one unreal word 
from your unreal mouth 
and I’m back at the start. 
The word is
yes.

Pastel

The word kept popping up.
Only a few times
but enough to get noticed.
I read it in 
a Smiths biography, 
it became a little running joke 
at work
and a little later 
it seeded a thought 
in my dense mind.
Since forever 
or at least as long
as I can remember
I have been 
suspecting
life to be a fraction 
of what we are meant to feel. 
There is some deeply rooted frustration 
that stems from the clash of 
the subconscious awareness 
that we can experience 
let’s say 
a 100% 
and the marginal outlines 
of the insubstantial senses 
our natural life bestowed on us  
and which allows only 
a mere 5% 
of the whole
to be actually disclosed.
There is a sick kind of restraint 
pressing our face down 
like a foot on the cheek.
Humiliating 
and debasing. 
As wonderful 
and balanced 
and content 
your life may be
it feels like there is something missing.
The incompletion of feeling 
is firmly lodged in its own genesis.
We can not close a circle 
that beyond our reality 
is in fact a continuous line. 
We are corrupted 
by the origins of things.
We aspire a golden dream 
and are dealt a handful of mud 
to fabricate it.
What I’m trying to say is 
that our desires are painted 
in living color.
In vivid 
bright 
textured
layered
and screaming fluorescence. 
Teeming with 
a throbbing radiation.
Hysterical discharges 
of wild and untamable majesty. 
Life 
is a bland pastel at best.
Everything about it reduces 
the ferocity of color 
and involvement 
that we so deeply seek.
Like it immediately 
waters down 
and weakens 
the inward pigments 
of all emotional sacrifice.
That is why everything 
always feels unfulfilling.
Draining even. 
I wouldn’t go as far as to say 
that it feels contrary to 
what you hoped it might be. 
But I see how you would be 
inclined to think so. 
It is of a similar disappointment. 
It appears to be of all expense. 
A fatality. 
You are a marvel
well beyond the natural realm.
A vision in itself.
Let’s hope you find the strength 
to acknowledge that in time. 
Before we are lost 
and all doused in pastel
and all dead.

Rotting

Humans have 
such 
amazing abilities
stupendous features
and
solid perfections.
But also 
many 
many 
and immense 
moral deficiencies.
There is such 
great contrast 
in our expressions. 
It almost seems as if 
there are different 
beings at work. 
Other species. 
There’s 
those that 
are 
driven by light 
and growth 
and there’s 
those
that are rotten. 
Infected. 
Where most 
have a little 
or a great 
deal 
of both. 
We wildly 
throw ourselves 
into unreasonably charitable 
deeds 
spurred 
by the nausea of our 
festering 
atrocities. 
We then guilt 
ourselves 
into love. 
Degenerate love.
There have 
been
a few  
too few
instants
in which I looked 
at you 
where I could have 
sworn that you too 
felt a tenderness 
free from all 
that baggage. 
Where I felt 
that 
you too 
understood all 
of it. 
But just like me 
and you are 
just like me
you had to let it 
go. 
So it too 
could exist 
freed from all 
that. 
Baggage. 
That was 
the claim. 
All it did 
was 
store things 
for later processing. 
We remain 
uncharted 
until then. 
Isn’t that 
sad 
for each and everyone 
of us?

I’m a peace monger

I’m not all that much for
farfetched conspiracy theories
but the funny thing is
that the wildest guesses of the most
paranoiac elements amongst us
often turn out to be
very close to the truth.
Here’s one.
The economic instability in the world
is a calculated means
to deflect public attention
away from environmental issues
because the energy suppliers
and especially the most polluting ones
feel threatened by the changing mindset. 
They would rather see
the world go to hell
than lose business.
They are unwilling to change
their business model
before all the fossil resources are depleted
and their profit has been maximized. 
It is the same strategy 
the conglomerates have used
in forcing politicians into
exaggerating the supposed ‘global’ threat
of terrorism
to submerge the populations in fear
and provide free reign
for the execution of 
the more obscure policies.
We’ll have one hell of a time
turning that around. 
If it’s not too late already. 

If I were less of a peace monger
I’d say that there might be a need
for the re-enactment
or a new stage
in the activities of the
Earth Liberation Front.
You know them.
They were the guys that sabotaged
the machines
that are still destroying the rain forest.
(I hope they are still being sabotaged as well)
A new stage could be 
a series of assassinations.
Killing the top percentile
of the financial world
and all their successors. 
That might stimulate some of them
or maybe all of them
to better redistribute
wealth
and more importantly
power.
Concentration of power
is always a bad idea.
There has not been
one single exception
to this.
So even if killing the lot
seems like a harsh idea
it might be 
the only course of action left
for the powerless.
Before everything becomes
totally pointless.
If only I were less
of a peace monger.

Romance is what you can not have

It has always been
our world
before our first ideas
had developed.
After our last breath
has been expelled.
It is not real.
Stacked with
errors
flaws and
contradictions.
But it is our world.
The most wonderful
and colourful one.
No heaven or hell.
No ceilings or floors.
It is everywhere
and it is there
for us.
It is where we hover
unbound and unseen.
Where we long to be
all those things we are
not allowed to be.
Doesn’t it strike you
as strange that we try to have
a definition of reality?
I believe there are
no means to achieve such travesty.
Imagine taking a decision
by wilfully choosing to
ignore
half the facts presented,
doesn’t that make your perception
of reality in that decision,
an illusion?
If I follow my reasoning
from that point on
don’t you think that
if you make a judgement on
what reality should or could be
based on all the known facts
(not only known to you, but to all of us)
without taking all the unknown facts
(not known to any of us, but
not less real or less possible)
which might be infinite
into account…
… don’t you think
that judgement is wrong
by the same standards?
I mean
how can you pin down reality
without considering 
all the other dimensions
it moves in
without our knowledge?
How can we know what is right?
How can we deem things
morally wrong
when they feel
overly right?
I don’t know.
I only feel like there is more than
what we think is true.
Why is it
so complicated?