Mirror, mirror

Eros is sore

EL SEBBO

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Delicate

Delicate
isn’t my name
and yet I am moved
by the imbecile
gently led by his father
down the street
while screaming songs
at the top of his head
I am moved
by a white cloud
standing still
over the city
like a gentle threat
I am moved
by your breath
gently lifting the sheets
deep in the night
when I can’t sleep
Yes delicate things
move me deeply
and confirm
the rage hidden
at the core of my words
The rage of impotence,
hope and rebellion
– but not despair
Despair, you see,
is too delicate
for me

EL SEBBO

Bad ear (or I should get a medal for doing this)

My ear is shot
Haven’t slept in two days
and here I am writing
this miserable poem
Is it friendship pushing me
or just poetry’s bad junk
shaking me up and down
and never letting me be?

EL SEBBO

Anniversarery pome (To my partner in crime, DJ Eldon)

no candles
but fireworks
no explosions
but roman candles
we have written pomes
for one good year now
we are very tired
but our mouths are still
full of spit, tongue, stones
and words
no firecrackers
but live ammo
no funeral pyres
but a feather
of the Phoenix

EL SEBBO

Another mystery

The white veil of morning
creeps around the house
The birds are black notes
and their song hang frozen
in mid-air
We drink coffee in the kitchen
and I want to tell you something
but your words erase mine
and I forget what I wanted to say
and there is no way you can help me
and we laugh it off and another mouth
replaces my mouth with different words
forming behind the seemingly same teeth
although they are actually a few seconds
older

EL SEBBO