I am alone. Just leave me be. Don’t come and color my drab world and leave it half-painted. It looks ugly.
I like my world colorful. I have my dreams for that. Keep your brushes away from me. I have my own.
I tend to daub paint on your world. I am messy. Forgive me.
I have these old brushes made of squirrel tail. Most sables have fallen off it. Yet I remember how it used to paint. I dislike other brushes.
You claimed you were selling me a peacock tail brush. Here you are! Placing fingerprints all over my canvas, clumsy and smelling of reality.
My old brush was the closest to my best brush. It made so many paintings which never sold. Then a fire swallowed all the paintings up. Now the ashes are smothered under deceptive happiness and false smiles.
You could be my best brush too. Yet stop smelling of reality. Things are bigger here. Come and I will show you.
I live in elysium. Don’t trade your stuffed bird for my bird of paradise. Don’t talk to me about the real world coins, paper money, dust, tiredness, sallow skin, shallow eyes, books and decay.
Here coins melt into laughter. Paper money wipes shoes. Dust is only a curtain-raiser for twilight. Tiredness is companion to passionate glinting eyes that do not sleep. Skin is a facade. Eyes are crevices in the skull filled with dreamcatchers. Books are stale eliminations from another man. Decay is evergreen moss that thrives with maggots and life.
Talk to me of breathing. Of whispers and shameless rain that wets your secrets . Talk to me of proud horses and the vanity of men. Talk to me of death. Of sleeplessness. Talk to me of restless creativity that steals every moment of peace. Of anger and love.
Write pages of meaninglessness. I don’t need your books written like experiments in a hermitage. Come out into the battlefield and write with blood on skin. Write with eyes, with fingers and with voice. Throw away your premeditated copulations with language and family planning with poetry. Give me raw poems – babies bloody and soaking in tears, plucked like fresh flowers from the amnion.
I don’t need your tools of editing, cutting and pasting. I destroy your scissors that trim and train. I present to you naked poems that trouble you for days. That turn you off with their primordial nudity exposed. Don’t clothe them with your lies. I shall shred them to pieces.
Bind me not with moving needles on a contraption. I am timeless. I fleet, starve, arbitrate and breathe. You cannot contain me in a box of linearity.
I prefer ignorance to stale knowledge. Freedom to rational binding of the self. I prefer immortality to death and meaninglessness to purpose. I prefer anger to submission.
Let me be.. let me be!