I didn’t think in Israel
I’d write the “Pool of whirl”
In which every mate is trapped
And the most vivid sign
Is the pullover-
Not on the body or neck,
But on his mind
Inside the very cell
Throughout the idea of his
Perfect Paradise
Or even this one very rhyme,
The bit of data or electric life-
But not the beginning it is,
As well as not the end
Or the middle
In this part of the text
Will be no massages or riddles
Just thoughts of a poet,
Put the “Poet” is a bit
Old-fashioned,
Nowadays is meaningless to call the
Man a poet, if
He thinks in a form of verse’s-
The form of a thinking line
In which my brain organizes crimes
That never happened or will,
Just imagination and my helpless will to
Try a thing,
Burn a thing,
Without anys or somes or nos kinds of things
Just pure imagination
And strong will
To create whatever
It’s supposed to be-
Architects are not the
Creators
Just pretenders and
Scholars instead,
The true poets are
Vividless, they do ARE in formlessness
And only a hand is
Seen
Beside the sheet,
Or shit,
You know what I’m
Talking about-
The beginning it’s not
As well as the
End or the middle, but
My mind is or was…
Here?
It’s not riddles, at least for me-
The line of thought
Cannot be straight,
As well as a gay can’t
Beat a woman
The chains of filters
For that are made
To keep intruders
From revealing-
The sense of words is lost,
The sounds are anciently
forgotten,
The grammar still holds,
But can’t predict for
How long, even
Am writing...What?-
The line of shapelessly
Believably creatived
Pounds of salt beneath
The sink,
You see the malady
Of melodies,
I see the world outside
The ship-