Funny Boy


Can I be normal like everyone else is
Saying a cigarette is divine and arrack is nectar

I don’t have 500 friends on facebook, after all
I don’t think I can recall every one of them.

I have one woman, my past, present and future,
All in one, I don’t have memories of having loved and lost

I don’t have heartache, a break-up or a woman cheating on me.
It seems I don’t have a lot that others have.

I only have words that shimmer like stars on a paper sky
And fly like kites strung from a nib. I’m a sculptor

Of words, molded and burnt inside a kiln, and unveiled
On little curio shops. Those curios are my life.

Each different from the other. Each with a story to tell.
A story of how a normal boy became a pilgrim of love

Going from tabernacle to tabernacle, to holy places.
A gypsy of a gender who couldn’t love me back.

And now I’m like a kite flown by one woman. A kite that will
Stay with her, give her babies, when she will have two kites

On the same horizon. A horizon called love, where everything
Has a place and time, perfectly crafted by editions of fate.

Will I be normal then? A nuclear family to call my own.
I know I only have words as change, as pocket money.

The currency of expression. The passport to hearts.
The presence that carves through absences and absentees.

A love of a little craft, crafting so many tiny babies
In the womb of paper. And each baby will smile

For no reason, cry for attention and sleep in hibernation.
And she will only embellish the hearts that seek her.

And I will still be the funny boy, who scripts little poems
And throws them out to the great wide open.

To blades of judgment, lurking like guillotines
Waiting to decapitate the ocular, the visual

Knowing the subjective eye is mightier than
Any archetype of beauty.


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