To Write a Poem by Aad de Gids

the strangest, obsoletest feeling it is this, heave of poitrine or hetero male chest

to, suddenly feel an incling to write a poem and all rules are getting fucked up

again while there is already a vague notion of content it has to be the day again just

this endless almost senseless succession of days but then in the (80s) “no future”,

“stop making sense”, mode.

what is this mysterious meaninglessness other then to be fallen in time, rather

“timelessness” even prepositioning the absence of time, the acceptance of chronic,

eeeh chronologic sequesterings but they are hoaxes with which we still our unrests:

we are particles of the universe and in the end or before the begin travel as neutrinos

through the chambers in the deepest transvaal mines 3,2 km.

through the plasmoid imminence of the sun ungraspable hot, through multitudes

of physicalities bumping into viscera, cartilage, eye fluid, the dead bodies but also

the stretchers in the morgue and the breakfast cereal of the pathologer: microns

of travels of microns, micrological sojourns of emojii, our absence presence as

such fleetingly given amoebic form

iridescent colours and fractured meanings, enfleurage of refined or vulgar flowers

lilies lilies roses and gardenia. imagine such tarry perfumy scenttrail of luxest

perfumes out of Neiman Marcus on the street mixed with benzene, nicotine, aaah

breath, stale alcoholed breath, humanity and lots of birds flying flying navigating

through rough cities but they are hardest and finest


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