I engineer my poetry
They need not feelings, proper art, true humanity
They consist only of words pretending to have some substance—
I like playing with letters seriously
Words I can never get a hold of in tangible reality
how fast do the distant hearts beat in juxtaposition to each other
and what other sensations can come about from that?
I only know satisfaction from rhymes that aren’t nursery
and ideas that wrap up well together as is—
I’m not a poet, nor an engineer of art
I’m a factory worker of words
alienated from what should have been their essence
the point of all that is called language.
I take vowels and consonants by muscle memory
mindlessly putting them together and then back on the endless belt of anxiety
And I wonder if that’s my sweat
water that I drank, that my body processed, that my pores excreted and dropped unto this
this perfectly manufactured line of existential crisis
i wonder if that’s my sweat
that’s making it glisten
as though a part of someone’s soul was able to,
still, reside in it—