Allow me to be frank, tonight
You see, in other nights, I am not frank
I settle for commas, when periods only feign sureness,
And poems, they sound better with commas,
commas create rhythm, periods halt everything.
like that. i sugarcoat my adoration of the night,
with commas that not only mutter but balk
at the destructive force of words.
but my frankness, it has no truth at all, not just
Truth — even truth, it lacks.
I am the mask that pretends to be the face
the rawest of illusions, the most deceptive
But you, and your cohorts of ghosts and
smoking warriors of penhood,
you know the face, the inventor of fake
frankness. words, words, words.
there’s no point for frankness when we do not know
the point of truth.
look at me in the eye and don’t listen to what I say.
frankness in words, is no match
to the faithfulness our deeds can have.
I am sad for you are not here
And i wander tab after tab
To occupy myself with trivia and images of athletes’ s sweat
I am good at rehearsals, my spontaneity is often disastrous
but they are the more honest
Plans, I will throw them away
I will scare myself with the ruptures
the 6am sun create in my skin
Only to unplan the day, and sleep
until its 10pm or so
full moon, bright and all
and my inner dracula will crave for
incoherence, thank you.
but words are bloody because they kill,
the spaces between them, among them, surrounding them
I lost my nerve and poetry cracks the lines
of sanity. My words flip
out of control, and hooray, more bloody destruction!
So good night, frankness don’t cheat us.
Schizophrenia is normal because I do not know what i want.
Present tense verbs are elusive, and delusive.
I crave for blood, poetry is destruction.
I want “us” at each other’s calmness
To paraphrase someone else’s
finale: We won’t speak, but at least we’re at peace.
Good night moon, good night,