top of page

A poet lost for words

.A rusty poet, lost for words .Inside him, a world is hidden, complete, full of wonder. Original, never been shown, one of its kind .A pure potential, countless possibilities. A dance never been danced, it's all in there, in his head and hands and body .Nobody saw it, the hidden world. Neither did he. Only I can tell of it, given my permission and access .The poet is mute, lost for words .Only I still call him a poet, and not because he asked me to .But I can speak on his behalf. I can speak on our behalf, at least half of us

.I vouch for nothing other than the sunrise and death. They both still surprise me .The mute poet lives next door. We share the same balcony and we use the same ashtray .It's green and made of metal, Its base is black and it smells of sweet.. well.. tobacco .The sun rises to our right. In the apartment left of us an old lady died .We believe in what we believe. But we can't vouch for it. Don't vouch for possibilities

.This turns them into certainties. This is boring and safe and still

.Expect a giant clown with wings to lift the roof of your house and blow his nose into your bathroom .Expect your son to live up to 800 years, with you by his side. Expect to be awake while dying .Expect the music to start at any given moment, expect then to give the dance of your lifetime

.Expect flowers to turn into weddings and expect words to heal us from hate

.Now that the night is about to end, my heart still pounds wildly as my body was dreaming heavily .The sun is about to set, a certainty I can vouch for .The poet sits at the joined balcony, opening his mouth for the morning words to enter .It forms a world, tiny as a quarter of an atom, yet a solid one .The poet blows life into the mini atom world, words begin to dance, and I finally fall asleep

bottom of page