The problem
with poems
is that they are no more
than objects
suspended
in solution.
Like pickles in a jar
they may have another
flavour and aroma,
texture, colour,
even movement
bobbling around.
But they don't seem
to decompose,
rot, stink,
reek. They
don't change
with time.
They don't
have life;
they're objects,
and since I can't
converse with
these ever traipsing corpses,
I will leave them,
though they'll never
leave me.
The problem with poems
is a short-lived
relationship
with a foreigner,
cause you think
they can't understand
anything but your physical,
and you can't describe
what you're thinking
because you really
don't know.
You hope they have ideas,
ideals, religion, wants,
fear, love, hate,
all human qualities
but it seems to you
they only repeat
what you have said before
and conversations grow
all too familiar.
Like a pickle out
of the same jar,
once you've tasted one
you roughly know
what the next one
will taste like.
At least you think you do.
That's the problem
with poems.