Let’s just start by saying I’m partly human

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Let the bionic hand that caresses a child be

more machine than motheresque. The eyes that

only see, doesn’t shine

be vermin and not

vermilion.

Tethered echoes

floating through our conscience – let them

drown in the black abyss

of the burning smell of

capacitors, resistors, transistors – silicon and steel.

The isolation, let it be

complete, man from himself, reveling

in things that he invented, but forgetting

what invented him.

 

The Modern Nomad

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In vastness of Patagonia,

I’ve heard hoofs making noises of muted

conversations; terrible wind notwithstanding,

a lonely Condor circles around

the last refuges – after which

human powers doesn’t

withstand.

An Armani blazer kisses the dirt that was once lava.

The naked body up for swim in the

acid lake amongst the Flamingos,

I eat sulfur for breakfast, and spew

magnificent Cadmium red and green

poems.

I sniff the fresh smell of snowflakes on

skin, running with Bisons and

diving with the gray whales.

This new earth is brutal,

but I love it. No love,

no connection, just

nomad-ing.

 

 

Waardenburg Syndrome

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Whims tinkling like a lure shaped nausea,

bright hands look for escape. But I’m not running

away.

 

Founding fathers have become preachers, and cities

cotton-candy laced with drugs. The faint tolling of

churchbells have drowned in the

morning boots.

 

Did somebody say rainforests were

dying? The same masks are being sold in

bulk, and the civilization is

H

A

P

P

Y.

The lives of others

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What good is your life, if you’ve been told it’s not yours?

That you need to follow somebody else’s; someone

with a shinier mask than yours – home

cars

trophy wife

Money.

The storm that rages and decimates calm shores

doesn’t follow another one, but you do.

With all your sanity, you drift into the road much trodden

where the grasses

have forgotten to grow. The uninspiring throne

is your bed. You don’t lust

after women, men – you are

raised to lust after a bucket list.

Your legacy is yours, like the crow’s nest cuckoo’s, and

the circus a joker’s.

The river meanders along paths unknown the first time it

jumps from a mountain. Thousand years later, the waters turn grey.

Souls turn grey too, only there aren’t enough eyes

to realize.