always the followers

soil the essence

in following

sometimes i listen to kabir

and i wonder what the hell

i'm trying to say in my own words

fuck off if you think i need to legitimize this

i am compost. so there.

make what you want to make out of that.

equilibrium is a dream

repeatedly dies in wakefulness (is this that example of when i try hard to create impact, and my words suffocate in an overdose of intended poeticism? i did add the wakefulness upon revision. thought it contrasted well with the dream. that's what they teach in schools, after all.)

i came.

did you see me?

brr.

did you look away?

brr. brr.

repeat repeat

dryness

repeat drabness

there are no words today

that are round

no words to create juice

even to create predictable sounds

feels like yet another mode of deception

if anything

i feign a poem

in this

there is no poem

today thoughts are weary

the jackal hunts the vaccuum

and square is the shape that always confines me

a good poem is a bad dream

a bad poem is just awkward

it's awkward

this is awkard

this is so awkward

garbage in garbage out equilibrium

but even that. who am i kidding.

i can't even get away with a make-what-you-want-to-make-out-of-that.

too many evens betray an aura of oddness.

wit failure.

erm. awkward pause.

it can end you know.

even if it's not a poem. a poem. poem.

...something undignified about a poem that refuses to end.

that is not really a poem. a poem. poem.