I don’t know anything about poetry
I don’t know anything about poetry or grammar—
syntax, rhythm or sentence structure. I don’t know
how to use words or to craft them. I know
crafting shapes aesthetics—an anti-thesis to today’s
human condition of uncertainty. But no! I am not
here to justify my materially vulgar poetry—
feelings that are rooted in materiality—my land,
my religion and my words. Read it as
lacunae; a space for my conditional existence. A misinformed structure
I don’t have the language you have... nor do I
have the Others who haunt your existence.
This regime feeds on my thinking and erodes it along its edges.
I always think or I should say,
I wonder if the regime is stupider
or the virus! One of them repeats itself
constantly where thoughts become in the manner of drill exercises. After all
is done and the pants are up,
I try to gather all the crumbs and watch them decay.
What else is synesthetic and metamorphosing than decaying matter.
So, I chose to stuff the crumbs in bags of words and call it poetry.
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