dear cream corn barfians...
Nowadays, wordss are scarce and inconclusives, poorly spelt and often a result of pressing the forward-icon. I am pretty bad, far from as straightforward, direct and immediate as I would like to be.
Poetry, -abstract, ironic, subtle, mondane-, has those powers of transmission. Poetry provides almost endless leverage due to the spaciousness it brings in its multilayered and allegoric nature. It gives the poet a timeless, where he thoughtfully can state his point providing the benefactor with a preferable pace, percieved in a manner that the perciever sees plausable.
But now it ain't be so nomore. Because we all know that poets are liers, even Zarathustra said so.
A poet means well. He's compulsive and can't be held responible for constantly tagging evidence of universal importance on the white wall of his journal.
He gets blinded by the collective blindness and so worked up over human ignorance that he fails to see how that presence is generated by the subjective. If you don't know you're lying, you're not really lying, only in technical terms.
"-He's a sanctemonius, pretentious, selfabsorbed, blabbermouth, but technically he's just another liar."
Solemnly he left the darkness of his own habitat,
Equipped, armed and newly fed.
Beats from times well passed hurled down the alley,
And thirst too, came into focus for a while.
Nothing left to disturbe.
from now I will miss you... maybe that s just a lie.
