Poetry does'nt mean a thing to me...

Death and all its strange lines can often seem odd...

When will the next change be?

      Under a tree?

Maybe...



Persist,

Exist.

  Honour or not, war will silence us all.



For the blessed,

  Its Concrete and Metal,

  And Blood on Ground

    And Man&Woman

    And Rape

      And Children Screaming in Requiem

      And Books

        And Piss

        And Shit

          And 'Love'

          And Noise

            ...

            All this Love and Noise...

Too loud to hear,

    Too quite to notice.



How do you create?

Sit and masturbate?

Maybe.

Life has a funny way of giving paradoxical answers like that.

  That freeform sequence type of thing.



'Less then maddness!'



They all think that, in there inadequacy and vengeful intolerance.



"Am I a Poet now?"

  I ask.

A little crazy from the sickness.

  God knows.

                    (Im sure)