Evil Genius and Other Mostly Sad Poems

The Drunk
He may stumble upon you on a dimly-lighted street, Zigzagging his way to temporary bliss or accumulating grief. Lugging a dear bottle that is both half-empty and half-full, He may suddenly approach you in profuse friendliness, Stare at you searchingly with the blood-shot eyes of one lost, Or pumped up with that kind of courage only alcohol gives, pick a fight, Or not see you at all, busy as he is having a rare honest conversation with himself. This is a man who, for now, wears his intoxicated heart on his sleeve. Morehe becomes a veritable artist of his muddled inner life. He can reflect his sense of self in the shards of smashed windows, Wax poetic in the recitation of the epic, incredible feats of youth, Sing with the sublime happy confidence unattainable when sober, Deliver a monologue about past failed loves and the doomed present one, Or with his tears paint the inconsolable regrets of a man reduced to this For a moment there he might scare you and you despise him (what a low life). Maybe you pity him toobut rest assured there is some respite from the eternal return, In deep and dreamless sleep and flashes of clarity, gifts of a smoke and bitter black coffee.

When I close my eyes

Lying still flat on my back in my empty bed I stare straight at the bare ceiling Seeing a tiny smudge I imagine it to be me alone in the white waters of anonymous existence (But when I close my eyes, you're here, right next to me) Once fiery autumn leaves have fallen now Strewn all over like dead butterflies or withered hearts The winds punish and the sun must have followed you When you left for that place where I couldnt be (But when I close my eyes, you're here, right next to me) Many times I have looked at a random crowd Thinking that I see your face glowing like a star I rush towards you every time only to get lost in that nameless sea Where like the wreckage of a disaster I drift aimlessly (But when I close my eyes, youre here, right next to me)

The One Left

Last night I had dinner with Loneliness. She (yes, Loneliness is female!) sat across from me, in the chair that now misses your warmth. I guess out of politeness and understanding she was silent for the most part and did nothing, but intently watch me cut up the steak into pieces, absent-mindedly and slowly (there was no reason to hurry), bring bits to my mouth and chew carefully, relishing the absence of life in each morsel. I largely kept quiet too--for what was I to say to her? Unlike uncertain lovers we no longer require words to fill in the blanks in our togetherness. And I know she understood how I felt anyway. She knows herself too well. There were questions that tempted me though: Has she always been with me? Is she here to stay? I was dying to ask but didn't dare for the answers might be simple, fateful, and true. I was thinking too that she should be capable of multiplying herself and simultaneously be at different places. For surely I'm not the only one who's learning to live with the fact of empty chairs and long silent meals, to endure and to make conversation with the only one that's left and comes near.

The Shy One

With painful judiciousness he does not dare meet your gaze Should you catch a glimpse of his desires, robust but futile, Poorly camouflaged by the controlled neutrality of his voice, The measured distance of his body and his impeccable civility. Like a kleptomaniac, he greedily steals glances at your sacred face And the inviting movements of those forbidden lips he burns to kiss To his memory he commits the dance of lights in your eyes, The intoxicating music of every uttered word, the magic of your smiles. His loot he brings with him into the darkness of night, To be stored in the heavy chest of memory and unattainable dreams --home to that romantic but aging heart, long abandoned by happiness and courage And constantly gnawed at by ever-growing emptiness and despair.

We Buy Books
We buy books that perhaps we'd never get to read they will stand patiently on our shelves shiny spines competing with one another for attention like siblings arguing over some silly thing demanding that the parent decide who's right a book will sometimes even have to live with the fact of an unwanted identical twin bought with a sense of urgency, but by mistake or with every good intention given as a present and because as with chocolate or sex you simply can't resist getting more they will steadily grow in number (and you will lose count) until, with a heavy heart, you'd have to put some on the floor even pile half a dozen on the water tank in the toilet on the TV and the PC, on things that should be less important Yet most of them will be ignored --and you will often say to yourself, only for the time being-just as the beautiful things of everyday like the blueness of the sky, the sound of rain, or the hesitant smile of a perfect stranger go unnoticed, consigned to the periphery of a life that has been devoted to men and matters of consequence or just like friends you left somewhere long ago present to you now only as warm sentiments or as blurry faces reminding you of good times, good things We try our best to get back to them to those books that surprisingly spoke to us of some of the thoughts, feelings and longings we sometimes couldn't really tell apart or articulate clearly enough or even admit we had We know we won't stop buying more books for though we do not always succeed in getting to make and waste time on them at least they'd still be definitely around when the children no longer seek our opinion when our friends return the favor of forgetting when men and matters of consequence rule on our insignificance to ensure a sense of presence other than one's own

Within
After a few drinks I resort to silence and I sit still then extreme sadness begins its siege like dark clouds threatening to overwhelm a lone island surrounded by anonymous waters. Like a docile patient I do not resist and it takes it very little time to possess me: It occupies my chest and broods there heavy, heaving, and more alive than me. As though attacked by a brutal illness or some potent drug My bodily members are rendered limp while I remain awake like an insomniac too tired to think, to move, and to give a damn. Like some tyrannical lord it impels me to go into the deep wilderness of my memories that country of dead men and dying hopes abandoned places and faces and unholy burial ground of old selves, love, and self-love. In the very belly of that black wilderness Perhaps at the moment of extreme danger Something else in me stirs and doubts wanting to turn back or find a clearing where some confident rays of light pierce through the thickness of the canopy of solitude But then like one addicted to some deadly stuff I stay where I am, unmoving, unconsoled but resigned exhausted from trying, thinking, and waiting for some holy salvation for my tainted soul. My eyes, ever widening, adjust to the darkness there as I tarry, already welcoming the next wave of unwanted recollections and a rain of emotions as a calming thought comes to me: Perhaps it is there that I truly belong.

They Tell Me
That cheerful spring in your step, eyes that arch like rainbows when you smile, those little hands that hold sincerely, warmly, the voice of simple truths and vivid dreams --they tell me that despite my disillusioned self There is still more in life and that it is alright.

Isaac (or the Son)

Many people say you take after me, As a sapling cannot but be a certain kind of tree. They are perhaps right for in you I see What I was before, who I could have beenthe true me. Though I do feel how youre separate and other Whenever you cry as youre chided for bad behavior, When you convey so unequivocally your own preference, And every time we have to part after a tight embrace. Its true that of me you bear a trace, Its patent in your moods, manner of speech, and face. My life perhaps shall be lived still through you, Your blood carrying my fears, failures, and all that I rue. Yet I am I and you are my Other, Bearing dreams and possibilities that are so much brighter. Growing, maturing, more human youll eventually be, Surpassing what I was before, who I could have beenbetter than the best me.

I will undress you now

The way a child wearing a warm smile With eyes beaming, uncovers a precious gift, Delicate and beautifully enfolded Yet ever so slowlymindful not To tear its ribbon and wrappings, Letting the hidden by itself unfold. And with my hands lovingly And playfully caress you, Feel your supple skin, As that of an infant newly bathed Ready to be held close and secure: Trusting, welcoming, and tender. I will roam your labyrinth Of curves and secret openings And let myself be lost: Be engulfed by your depth and warmth, Be claimed by you, my gift, Be embraced by you, my tender one. I will undress you now.

No McFly People who tell you that they regret nothing at all lie. For who wouldnt choose to rush back in time To be able to counsel ones younger stupid self About avoiding one of his irreversible mistakes, The dear one death dastardly stole away, Or which paths in life to take, which decisions to make. Sadly Im nowhere close to that ballsy Marty McFly Who can hop onto the Delorean, that dream of a car, And zoom out of the present in rocket speed, To land in the past where anything can still be. With ample wit, luck, and courage he makes change And in heroic fashion, blasts back to the future newly reshaped. Though I surely am no Emmett Brown I plainly see That I flubbed what could have been a romance for the movies. Now that we are ancient history, irrevocably gone and tragic, I feel powerless in this perpetual present disjointed decisively From our sweet past, accessible now only through nostalgia, From any future where you are mine timelessly.

Hanging On
Like cunning birds of prey moving in for the kill They sweep down on the tired bus halted in traffic. Two or three grisly faces dive into the fray Traversing the gap between burning asphalt and cold steel. As an unseeing infant grasps the extended finger it trusts, The survivors calloused hands grab the rusty metal bars. For this is but part of the struggle that requires nothing less Than the workers arms as brawny as the roots of storm-battered trees. Lucky that they are granted some blessed relief By looking at the inextinguishable sparkles in the dark Philippine sky By gentle gusts of winds drying the tears of their bodies, Equally the ball and bet in a fixed high-stakes game. They hang there on the bus side and will not let go until They come near the holes they call homes, shelter and sign of their suffering.

Tomorrow
Tomorrow, I hope it rains So that I will once more be In your room, basking in the Blue-green dim-light that Enveloped us once in your Bed where wetness and warmth Are not rivals but friends. There, locked in your arms Embrace and your thighs, I surged and slept, From friction to peace, From twilight till dawn, From desire into love. Tomorrow, I hope it rains And once again we shall Exchange more like children Than wily merchants Stories and badly sung songs, Deep sighs and long moans, Fluids and food, Smiles and well-meant frowns, And touches, touches, and touches. Tomorrow, I hope it rains. Oh! How sweet are the things that come With it.

From a Classroom in Leuven

I see the passing of ashen clouds Racing after time thats fleeing Driven by the howls of the wind Carrying with them somber forebodings I pleaded with them to bring to you The hopes I carefully nurse for us Desires that touch you from a distance Longings that know and seek my only one I am consoled by the thought that one day youd look up Perhaps up there youd catch a glimpse of my face In the calmness of the heavens that have just shed tears Or in the quiet depths between darkness and the stars

Evil Genius
Your coming is undoubtedly as monumental As the discovery of the new world or space travel My life has now been split into two distinct eras: The age of Before You and contented aloneness And the After You, time of my insecurities increase, Of skipped heartbeats and unattainable inner peace. You do not realize but you are indeed The Evil Genius who has planted doubts seed In what used to be my happy single consciousness Now decisively disturbed by increasingly unreal images Of you and me and our future possibilities that find Clarity and distinctness each time I think them or conceive them in my mind. You are likely unaware that even my dreams you haunt There where the need to come near and touch you does not want Any bit of reality as what is now my waking life of trances And of the lurking urge to be exorcised of your presence That brings the agonizing certainty you have made plain to see: That I am here. And you are there completely unaware of me.