I am not.

I am not a poet. I know nothing of rhythm or rhyme or imagination. I am like Henry Miller. I am a talker and I talk through words. I hate my voice, those repulsive vibrations of my vocal cords. I would rather not speak. Ever. I would rather decay in my plastic chair on some evening sitting by the window. The sky is holding nothing much. My plate is empty. My grandfather hangs on the wall in front on me, and next to him, my grandmother. He was a real son-of-a-bitch. His mother was a labrador and his father a pug. Imagine the union! He was a real scumbag, a real man of God, a real hand of the Devil. He destroyed everything and hence, nothing fruitful will grow for the next hundred years. He was a real pain in the ass and I remember watching him on his deathbed, his soul was barely hanging by a leg bone. I wish I strangulated him long before that, but that privilege I couldn’t have. Which leads me to think, why the hell am I talking about my asshole grandfather? No idea.

I am not a poet. I cannot produce much except a lot of semen and a lot of sweat and a lot of shit. The last time I looked at my blood, it was bright red, all sealed in a thin glass bottle. It took those fuckers five days to test my blood. FIVE DAYS! All the virus could give me was vitamin deficiency. If I could miniaturize myself and enter the quantum world, I would catch the virus by its neck and smash its head in some cupboard.

I am not a poet and the year is 2021 and I have come quite far. I have come so far, I cannot see shit. I have stepped beyond the horizon in my green shoes and brown hat. My hands are melting down and my cup is overflowing with the most bitter coffee. I need a buffalo ride to the supermarket. I need the infection. Again. I am lifting you up and putting you down. I am walking and dreaming and talking and walking and drinking. I am scratching my drooping mustache and staring at my cock. ENOUGH OF POP MUSIC. ENOUGH! This night requires jazz and a global catastrophe. I am playing some whiskey jazz now, and waiting for this insidious plague to butcher us all.

If anything bad happens, please do not pay attention to it. This is my little playground. My devil’s triangle. My home from where moon and sun and the stars and all that has vanished. I am standing at the edge. I am opening my mouth to a cruel storm. I am igniting the burner of life in me. I am alive and well in this conspiring desert as I talk to the dead on some nights.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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