The chills through the bones,
the sadness of a long road,
the passing sound of acceleration,
all in all
to be human is to be ignorant.
Liberation is in the crafts of knowing nothing.
In the forest,
the dying forest
I go to get me into a falling sensation,
I have felt the trap of knowledge
and it has been a death everytime I have been infused with the balance of a civilization.
Rebels,
misfits,
the fountains of fresh blood,
the baldness of a yellow light,
my body
against a topaz,
my mind against the razor,
my creation against the orders of a modern culture.
Raw women
sleeping on a raw log,
dewdrops,
my fingers,
my love for her…sometimes words are meant to be written like free bullets,
like a machinegun,
like a war trench…
Sometimes people die from the juices of their words…
sometimes it’s a false promise that makes a poem
and kills a man…
Sometimes the magnitude of the pain of knowing is too much to carry on our wild shoulders.
If you think it’s a poem then you are drowning with every word of it…
Can you find me anywhere?

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Joel Tjintjelaar.