I. Hometown
(syntax & punctuation)
I locked myself within a full stop
it had yet to dry and looked funny in a structure of
an awkward punctuation
the invisible tone and the desire of syntax were hanged
or committed mass suicide
there was no sign of touching
returning from a hometown
where all definitions were meaningless
two spaces
two climates
and a yearning soul in overcast sky I fled
to another nightmare
like an innate rhythm from a nonsensical alliteration
freedom was sometimes as vague as air
at this juncture
while I was busy burying a story
a song knocked on my door with the lyrics
of an aimless journey
in the arms of the quotes
wakefulness has turned into a fairy tales
I often felt empty after returning from
the space of the past
it had no shape and was as unruly as the sense of freedom
I have had more than a hometown and
a timeline
perhaps, this was another clumsy syntax
II. At dawn
t he sun came
in an unmatched strange excitement
I was mesmerized by a stringent gaze with
a bit of naughtiness
perhaps
its jocoseness has given me peace of mind
I often forgot all rough ideas: the gift of time
from which I have deduced overnight
at dawn
when the sun reclaimed the borrowed ideas
through the window of January
I threw away the rotting corpse of humanity
from a mysterious horror
it splashed out
an abstract concept
the death of definition might start in every moment
as the death of words in poetry
I’ve never argued about the meaning of the corpse
even the corpse of thought
but the annoying cackle from the wind about the truth
made me feel agitated
with a little lack of vigilance
I was almost convinced by the blatant sophistry of the white clouds that
poetry is just a detention center
and a poet is not a dictator
though
poets are still imprisoned in their poems
dawn would always burn the passion of prosody
every moment of extreme loneliness
each of poetic shadows and grotesque
I know
the word’s spaces would reappear in all tenses
III. & the fire from those eternal regions
no need to close your eyes
to see roots and flowers of Spring incarnating
as an elusive movement
an underground stream
sneaked into the middle of an urge, the bridge unwittingly connected
the joints of the imaginary time
and linguistics
I called it poetry
I translated the bridge by metaphor, a discomforting confusion
caused by invisible music
the shadow of the trains in shallow streams, the mayhem of semantics,
and the whistles screaming on departure
in the waiting night
the moment I knocked on the door of prosody
all accents detonated
this was a poem I wrote
in another language which was abandoned
in virtual space with conflicting objects
the turbulence of the sacred fires sometimes
necessary for grotesque ideas and
the self-destructive structure
the spring is not in dramatic weathers, twilight flames, fluctuations
or something traveling like wind
in the sun’s expression
literary prejudices betray the creativity of language
and surreal intonation
poetry
would never be the fire
from those eternal regions
I started to disassemble
the details of my poem
and threw the bridge into the word’s soul
abyss
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