poemfunk-blog

[poemfunk-blog]

Funk 13

One day My poetry will be found On some obscure napkin Left behind at the Apocalypse When the scavengers in dark suits count the dead There is profit in profanity All resolved By facts and figures Thank God For bureaucrats They tell Me How many days I need to be Alive.

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Funk 12

I am surrounded by accountants They smile Green and blue fingernails It is a tragedy of numbers The world on a spreadsheet I cannot justify joy with rows and columns Perhaps mediocrity needs a proof Of sorts To justify itself.

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Funk 11

I am awaiting patiently My moment will come Teardrop after teardrop It is not for you to say When my ocean will be plenty Perhaps in a second of weakness Things will unravel Same as before A village of forgotten images Will populate countries of words And wonder So I am collecting my dues Of very little meaning While making no contribution And no joy.

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Funk 10

I cannot write a poem that makes a million dollars So I remain an employee Functionary Words take decades It is a tragedy of timing We all live in a universe of absentee poets Especially tomorrow When the man will come With his briefcase full of bitterness And so the world will spin For phoney folks and such.

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I’m not worried

I’m not worried

Apple is working on another iPhone

There will be another Kim Kardashian story

Tomorrow

The world is a feast

Of brash and brawn.

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Funk 7

Look at the silence

It is buried in ice

Cold water of blue and white stones

In truth

I could fuck around poetically

All day

Or just hang out on Instagram

Facebook

And wait

To be judged.

[poemfunk-blog]

Un

Who are you

My sister

My friend

My lover

My blood

When I see your face

In that moment of vacuum

Droplets of rain water

On your dress

Labels are for old men

In leotards

Or corporate gorillas

It’s like the dude on the bus said today

With his cracked iPhone 5

I pay the fare

To ride on.

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In Japan

In Japan

The thought of you is unbecoming

Mostly because happy robots

Are cramping my sulk

Even walking around icy Kyoto is depressingly blissful

Everything looks the same

Life is unanimously predictable

I know you are drinking coffee

In a Starbucks light years away

Your hair white like paper

Perhaps it’s the apocalypse

It certainly feels like

The end of the world.

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Digital Hermit

I feel like a hermit In a cavern Blissfully obscure I feel protected By the digital ocean Nobody knows Nobody cares Inside their insulated homes They are watching reality on TV.

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Poem Funk

I am morbidly afraid of my own poetry the way it chases me with the As and the Bs and the Cs. The vowels in particular, are especially nasty projections of irreversible thoughts. I heard there are poets who have the courage to rewrite letters as if anything that is out in the open can be perfected beyond its natural born state. Me, I give the floor to the mighty they always have something to say. Perhaps in their perfectly cosmetic harmony hidden, my voice can find peace.

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Despot of my Destiny

I am for kings and queens and emperors In the same way a thought is an abstract organism Of pomp and pageantry. I am for coming out of my head In a pure moment of amazement. There is nothing republican about love My spirit is not a democracy I am the despot of my destiny.

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Limited Liability

I am only going to be goodIf they say I’m good. Otherwise I’ll just remain myself: a solitary enterprise of limited liability,at odds with the technicalities of this minor universe.

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Fungus Malady

I take my place in the cue And I wait for the cure to Eternal boredom Of the mediocrely confused They say we’re are all terminal A mosaic of inconsequential parts The fungus malady of the anima Turn it on And imagine you are already dead.