Why is your face so dark?
Perhaps she is looking at my shadow.
She might be doing a thing called love;
she can’t face my face.
Or my shadow covers my face?
Nah! How could that happen?
What can you expect from mortal creation?
So many questions;
no answers –
that’s why I am still breathing.
What is alive is
My shadow that is not looking for answers.
Am I alive or not? –
more questions; still no answers.
Maybe I am my own shadow…
Am I Adam who is sunk by Eve’s one word
to the bottom of the sea
with a millstone around his neck?
What covers my face is her shadow?
Ah! We seem to be really doing a thing called love,
facing each other’s face face to face.
A self-proclaimed poet who has been walking
in a desert desperately looking for Hippocrene
for quite some time is attending Sunday Morning
Holy Mass alone. Alas! Two beautiful women enter
the sanctuary and take a pew right in front of the
nameless poet. Their not-so-cheap perfume arouses
poet’s imagination. They look intimate, almost too
intimate; they look lovely. They seem to love each
other; they must be lovers. How fitting in the holy
place full of Jesus’ love! The poet recalls the scenes
of last night’s les porno and replaces the actresses
with two women in front. Better than straight adulterous
lovers, aren’t they? God’s providence – the poet who
didn’t want to go to Mass was drawn to it and found
the beautiful image and wrote this weird poem – works
in mysterious way. The nameless self-proclaimed poet
got another big inspiration but it is too holy to mention
in this blasphemous poem. Thanks and Praise Lord!
I ate the chocolate she gave me just like a frog snatching a dung fly,
which created a small hell in my stomach.
Perhaps it was a no-name cheap chocolate.
In fact, would she have given you a Godiva?
Just like you shouldn’t pick up and eat a chocolate lying on the street,
you get into trouble if you jump at things a woman gives you.
Thanks to that stomach discomfort, chocolate grabbed my attention.
I’ve found out that Godiva is not No. 1 in the world!
Ah! There will a time that I give a Teuscher as a birthday present
to a beautiful woman who loves brand-name chocolate, sweet things like me.
But I won’t give a cheap chocolate that causes stomach trouble
to a woman I hate, even though she is a sheer bitch.
However, if the thought that even cheap chocolate should be given is sad,
my mindset of no-giving-no-taking would be happy?
Because of stomachache from a cheap chocolate,
This excreta has been created.
Believe it or not, sometimes dog poop is used as medicine,
so cheap useless stuff would be worthwhile.
But, I wonder what this excretion can be used for…
After eons of walking,
I am gazing around
standing on a road not known to me.
There is no way for me know
from where I set off on this journey.
Do I know where I am headed?
I wouldn’t know where this road my feet are on
is going? Rather,
if this road wouldn’t arrive anywhere,
after I would do again eons of walking
and return here,
would I see gargantuan wings
coming down ripping the gray sky?
Lips are for kissing;
The kiss sublimates two mortal’s filthy desire into joy,
and comforts and fills the greed of mouth with love;
the greed that only wants physical food.
The kiss consoles the tongue with warm breath;
the pint-sized tongue that slashes heart with a dagger.
must be closed by other open lips.
The use of lips is just one.
A mouth filled with greed and dagger
has a smell of rotten meat.
Which lips can close the lips of that mouth?
What would I do
with the stinking mouth of the girl
I am about to kiss?
Again today, I
head for the small clearing in my enormous forest,
cherishing child’s naïve dream,
receiving threat of the Sacrament of Reconciliation,
hearing a plea that the clearing should be filled with Jesus.
A little bird that would bring a news of her coming
didn’t come, but she would fill up the clearing
which nobody or nothing can squeeze in.
The reeling of any twigs,
The sorrow of feebly falling leaves,
can’t replace her mysterious smile.
The sound of undressing of autumn trees
can’t be compared with the thrill of taking off her veil.
the clearing is filled with her esoteric fragrance,
not because of weary autumn rain visiting every day,
not because of the November standing dubiously
between Autumn and Winter,
not because of her holed socks,
but because of the wobbling of the shallow-rooted flowering tree
that hasn’t gone through the winter of endurance.
What is that wobbling target?
What is this bow I am holding?
Why am I on this tiny boat?
Why am I staggering on this rolling water?
With a unleashed fantasy and
With a petty sense of guilt thrusted into a hip pocket,
I set out on a trip with her.
Nobody would dare to paint over my painting.
My name and her name are lying side by side;
My winged illusion has become a reality in this fashion.
When my heart that’s been pounding with great joy,
sees a hole in her sock, it picks up a small boat
and rows toward the center of the lake.
Lay down your bow!
How could you be a flower if you act like a hungry bird?
How come you try to uproot yourself?
If you wobble like a reed in the wind,
could you become an easy target for her?
Ah! I too have a fierce life….