spontaneity misspells
a lot of words, for the mind
is rushing and the hands as usual
are limp,
as spontaneous as you, you are
not bothered, at all, at these
unusual, pauses, likely abused,
by the hands of these hours,
spontaneity comes like an uninvited
stranger into your house,
eats a cookie, drinks beer, and
lets you swallow your pride, tells
you that you are stupid,
and forgives you somehow for being
honest,
and then leaves you alone again,
into a murmur
the barbar in you, which they all
agree, could have been barber, but
you insist...barbar, barbar, barbar...
barbaric breaths, breaking into
a blurbing barb, messing mesmer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem