Lying across the polyester carpet in my
disassembled dormitory, worlds apart from fictions
best conditioned for magical realism as well as
all other strange subgenres proliferating out there,
all of us pondering the happenstance of sudden death.
Sipping €2,00 wine in my own sort of exile
generated due to cultural mishap, guilelessly believing
through pathetic visions of supreme skill
that I too have done honour to humankind in ink in the name
of fuckbuddies, uncles, acquaintances, enemies and surmised others.
I wander through an empty courtyard in circles,
dizzily entering my stale coloured room to find
my cheap paperback of what I often tend to hear
is an unquestionably timeless piece of writing;
but I am limited with the hesitancy of concern.
I cannot say if my senses are straight.
if three romantic partners divorce me
in life, will they be as befuddled by
my eventual death as the literary zealots
I count myself with are by yours?
I gaze across the pimply face of the stratosphere,
cumulus clouds of tropicalia music hovering above the
coast of Colombia, estranged from the knowledge of
how much facial cream can cure the hiccups of hormonal skin,
representing the forecast of the forlorn.
Great masters perish all around me,
the daggers of mediocrity piercing their breasts;
content in their wisdom though dismayed by our unoptimistic future,
our wizards eradicated without single backward glances
before pieces of the populace board AA Flight 11.
I peer over pieces of scribbled paper,
an imitating ape believing somehow in ability
to control the neural chaos that envelops us all,
only lacking the gall to bring forth
such letters into the public world.
– For the late Gabriel García Márquez, 1927-2014