Six Cells

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I first met you in the sterile chamber,
between white walls, under neon light.

It was strange to think you existed
outside of the human body,
six cells, pristine
in your transparent cradle
with the eyes of science
spying your very first
hours in the world.

I look down at the surface
of my abdomen, wondering
if under all the surgery scars
and injection bruises
something is actually coming
to life,
something resilient and stubborn.

And while philosophers and clergymen,
politicians and the man in the street
discuss whether you are or are not
human yet,
I like to think you’ve accepted
the challenge
and are already making a statement
through your daring to live
against all odds.

The Konmari Method

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It’s time to end the tyranny

of things.

 

All that’s gross

will be tossed.

Half the stuff

is enough.

 

Family members who tend to hoard

will be thrown overboard.

 

You’re allowed to destroy

all that fails to spark joy,

and you will have to drop

unrealistic expectations

while you conquer your space

and rebuild your foundations.

 

The clutter on show

is the source of your pain;

you must let it go

then you’ll breathe once again.

Spread it all on the floor

and consider its volume;

then imagine right there

a relaxing, clean vacuum.

 

The room’s in a jumble,

you’re going to stumble.

You’re feeling the urge

the closet to purge,

but please do not start

too near to your heart.

 

The meaningless clothes

will first leave the nook;

then off to the rows

of precious, dear books.

Then paper and bills;

by now you can safely

address your mementos

without grieving painfully.

 

Get rid of the mess

of goods in excess.

Recycle, donate

but don’t ruminate.

 

You need only do this

once and for all;

what’s left then is You,

your self-made Future,

the white canvas of a wall.

Human Recipe

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Here you have these cold cuts,

neither too fresh, nor too dry:

just the right degree of aging.

Serve them with a salad on the side:

dog hips and asparagus

to evoke the wilderness,

sea weed against assumptions,

stereotypes and prejudice.

Brain-shaped walnuts

to feed your mind,

a soft-boiled egg to welcome what’s new,

onion to arise strong feelings in you.

Basil leaves for heritage,

cherry tomatoes for identity.

Coriander and a pinch of cumin

tell the passion for foreign things.

For the dressing: a sprinkle of EVO oil

for the love of the land,

and red vinegar for rants.

Doesn’t taste very good;

well, nor do I.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/you-the-sandwich/

The Invention of the Internet

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Once, in my childhood home

I sat on the floor

foreseeing my future self.

Wisdom is the meaning of my name,

so I longed to be an intellectual.

Scientist, poet, artist;

anything would do.

I believed, I confess, I would always

hold an advantage on others

because I had bothered

to read all the books.

But later, a vase of pandora

was opened by some IT fool

who failed to see the implications,

and suddenly all the

knowledge in the world

poured onto my head

and I was overwhelmed

by a tidal wave of facts.

They were just too much,

sickly sweet like

fruit tea saturated with sugar.

I was lost in amazement,

agonizing and gasping:

I’ve heard it is called

information overload.

This is the bitter story of how

Google ruined my life.

The Immigrants

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We’ll be gone in the morning.

You and me will sail our ship

to a more favourable wind,

bold and ready for new ventures.

Time to start a new tradition,

far from the pettiness of endless

inane conversations.

We’re in for the real thing.

Deep-rooted folks take for granted

that everyone, given a choice

likes his birthplace best.

Really? It’s an assumption fostered

by narrow-mindedness,

wealth and lack of ambition.

Don’t they know?

Birds sing the same songs

all around the world.

The very idea of homeland

is a propaganda lie.

The Prisoners

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My kind lives long enough
to achieve wisdom.
I’ve travelled the Universe
for eons, crossing paths
with countless species;
but I found Terrestrials
to be a most peculiar race.

They spend their fleeting lives
trapped in phantom cages
they build for themselves,
willing prisoners of
choices not made
or inability
to delay gratification.

They endure decades of
dull, hidden pain
to avoid the discomfort
of one single
embarrassing moment.

And to think that all it takes
for the penance to cease
is to say “no”
at the right time.

“No” is the password
to freedom, fulfillment
and health.
Bu so are Humans:
a helpless, pathetic breed.

Killing the Bad Guy

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I picture myself with a gun
I’m taking the aim while you run
You’re bleeding around
You make a strange sound
Shut up or you’ll spoil all the fun.

I’ve chased you all over the state
So many years spent in the wait
Things fall into place
You’re losing the race
You’re finally meeting your fate.

This morning as I hit the trail
I made up my mind not to fail
This looks like a mess
But I must confess
I’ll grin on my way down to jail.


Please, don’t get me wrong: I’m not an aspiring serial killer. Although there are psychologically abusive people in my past – as in everybody’s – whom I find hard to forgive, I’m not actually planning to slay anyone. The only murder I can conceive is that committed with a pen (or keyboard). Ridicule is a more effective poison than cyanide, and doesn’t take you to court…provided you don’t mention any names, of course.

My Contribution to In-flight Literary Magazine

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I’m delighted and proud to say that two of my unreleased poems, White Noise and Paper Mill, are being featured in the third issue of In-flight Literary Magazinepaper-plane

This online periodical is published by the Paper Plane Pilots, a group of talented writers whose mission statement is, among other things, to “make the numb feel again”.

So, if you have a few minutes to spare, check out my poems and let me know what you think here on the blog. It’s great to have some feedback.

Insanity

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You’re shutting down,
curled in a ball of hate.
They say you lost your marbles
on the way to education.
The doctor has shrunk into a patient.
They say you’re mad.
The sheep are still down under,
but they’re all dead:
they haunt the fields,
depopulating the land.
The green pasture of expectations
withers and crumbles,
lava floods
an empty landscape with no end.
A picture where the bride
throws the bouquet
for a girl to grab
like a legacy of faulty genes.
A summer camp child
praised by everybody
has now gone off
like flowers on a tombstone.