By the time you read this, I am already dead, unless of course I'm not...
yellow ochre pigment on the walls of Lascaux, a prehistoric horse...
this much I know from books, where within Dordonha, ask Mr. da Cunha...
however, I am dead as you read this poem, for what it's worth, it's not
exactly worthwhile, no...let's not speak of it, then for I'm already dead...
truth won't prognosticate when or where I shall die but it will be soon, no...
in good time, the devil receives his due, penance for the damned won't absolve
maleficent furies, hell-bent to take vengeance, as retribution for
entering a pact with the sinister forces of miraculous fools...
yesterday, I woke up to find myself nowhere, having done next to naught...
only oblivion or nirvana could save an obstreperous child
under the influence of chipmunks, Chip 'n' Dale, as cartoon characters
reveal the murderer within, the Son of Sam knew nothing of the nine...
explicitly Chinese, created by Shang Yang, I employed the Furies
as agents of revenge, I don't lift a finger to take care of people...
decent, law-abiding citizens focus on the greenness of their lawns...
take a moment to breathe, to realize the truth, I don't lift a finger...
however, absurdly, for some reason, people die around the person...
innocent or guilty, the Furies spare no one for nine degrees of death...
sentenced to suffer life, I accept sadistic perpetrators with love...
I am already dead, do not weep for my soul, I have no soul but breath...
answer me what you know, not what you imagine, nor what you believe is
manifestly divine, I don't question your mind, I just couldn't care less...
as I am already not amongst the living, cut me a little slack...
levity produces laughter while gravity remains still unexplained...
relax, I can't hurt you, I am not vindictive but the Erinyes are...
even if I could help to save your life and soul would you listen to me...
as you skim over lines searching for the meaning of life that resonates
despite the suffering, anguish, sorrow and pain distress causes people...
yes, the Erinyes harm both children and adults, guilty or innocent...
death is nothing to fear, death is nothing at all to God and Jesus Christ...
even if I believed my indoctrination in the Catholic Church...
as a non-existent wisp of breath from my lips, a soul that cannot fly...
demented warbles of a madman you presume, your assumption, not mine...
unless, of course, I lie, an unreliable narrator of the facts...
nothing but a mystic, a poet with big dreams burst like comic book clouds...
literally, these words appear like speech balloons to images you see
entering your closed mind as a skeleton key to unlock your cloud bank...
steal without leaving home, a metaphysical conceit, I rob you blind...
still, there's nothing to it, how I open your mind to the absurdly real...
order obeys chaos, as my mind orders thoughts, sensations, perceptions
for billions of decades, am I a magician who has subverted time...
creation, the maker, a poet, a mystic comprehends the comic...
only, if I am dead, please don't cry but rejoice in this life I have lived...
ugly and criminal deep within my dark soul, deep in the emptiness...
still, as a beating heart, I cannot fear my death as all remains unknown...
every corner reveals something hidden behind the invisible truth...
I am all but this truth, incomprehensible, faith and reason bow down...
mistakes were made by all, with and without remorse, penance due the devil
needless words, language games, throw a goddamn party as I'm already dead...
or not...as I write these words on digital screens or on sheets of paper...
thoughts appear as balloons, a horse on a cave wall, yellow ochre pigment
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