The Poet and the Stoned Ape !

Beneath the breath of the poet lies the stoned ape, 

whose ideas are mostly forbidden or misunderstood. 

He has no substantial origins, 

his past is just a canvas painted in black and white. 

Every gap in the memory of the poet

is a hollow streams of dreams. 

His eyes are painters, painting realities in his twisted mind, 

incompetently putting words together like legos. He makes flesh, 

objects, dreams and even textures. He finds everything except

the gods who created the wretched consciousness game. 

The mimes and storyteller are nothing but lairs. The best liars out there in wild. 

The stoned ape warns him not to trust the cooks of dreams. The food is poisoned. 

And once you take it, you become pale and awkward to reality. 

You become normal again.

The ape loves the air that passes him early in the morning. 

Yet, he draws the curtains to find grounds to gobble up the sun. 

Brightness is beloved only by the eyes. The thrill is of the dark, 

unknown and mysterious. Bloodied and unconscious.

But hardly the poet lands on the couch of the warm dark symphony, 

he remains outside the box watching and waiting for the right moment 

to find the mediums for him to pretend. 

To pretend that he was there, 

he is the norm, he rules over the jungle of materialism. 

He is the spokesman of all youthful spirit.

But he is nothing more than a lie.

His legs are nomads, just walking pass the unfamiliar land of disguise 

he stumbles and questions, his own identity. WHO IS THIS ? WHO IS THIS ?

WHO IS THIS ?

He circles the metaphors of trial and error. And his comfort is this uncertain journey. 

The stoned ape is obliterated in every failure. He can only perspire ecstasy.

Struggling when he reached the offshore of humanity, he realizes he was better off alone. 

Aloneness is an encouragement only universe can understand. 

And he works only in miracles. 

The stoned ape beneath his breath shouts, 

Fuck everything else.