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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required An hour has hatched in my feeble head all the actually tormented minutes, many stuffed seconds, the past's terrible death that haunts me obsessively, to lurk, appear in the future, after a present that aged too quickly, from the future, absent apparition, of being or never being clearly anymore. And look how I've found through a me too often rushed through labyrinths, infinitesimal traces of infinity, of my current occupation like a toxic river, attached to life in my unprofitable square dream - from THOUGHT exploding in me, the secret mission - hatred! - the tenacious demented fight with my phantom windmills! To find for my poetry the neurotoxic antidote, the anti-EVERYTHING destroying meanings, of candles transpired tears of hot melted wax, my most whorish passions, of our statues celebrities, still unhewn, in marble stones waiting, when from youth's exhausting sprint, I feel my labored soul throwing away. I shake as long as I'm still alive from the biosphere all imaginary windmills, of life's intensely total electric stress that burns my neurons in small fires, I, the successful illiterate who reads chaos on the pages of burnt time, of seconds' past sonorously screaming, on the definitively broken from lost future! The hour hatches minutes like time embryos boiling in the skull, the past's memories die and turn into ash of pallid memory, the future lurks somewhere in the present like an untamed wild animal, and I, rushed through myself, find infinite traces in my brutal finitude.
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