What About Poems of the Avant-Garde?

Cities of the Avant-Garde: Three Poems and a Collage
Spread from What About It? Part 2

Cities of the avant-garde
A thousand islands float
Where uncommon thoughts coexist.
They hover on the place where they should have collapsed long ago,
Because the avant-garde although dead, could never die.

Imposible fantasies built at unbearable speeds
Vanish from where the sight can reach.
Stopped by the collective mediocrity of a reality that’s too real,
That cuts short the fuel of dreams.

A vast archipelago awaits,
Far from the common horizons and where the light casts shadows.
It was pronounced dead,
But although
 no heart beat, the avant-garde still could never die. 

Towers crawl to the sky,
Like lost verses of dead poets, or the smoke of burned canvases of dead artists.
Modernity melts into air,
And pours back as rain decades later just to be again evaporated.

A redundant struggle endures,
About singular dreams of collectivity that although never lived, are declared dead.
The avant-garde was, is and will be dead.
The avant-garde
 can never die. 

Gray Matter
They are gray, 
Always gray.
It’s the gray of the concrete,
The gray of steel.
They are gray as the pavement,
Gray as glass.
Gray as the dust of the wind,
Gray as the mushroom cloud.
Gray floats in the sky,
Gray digs deep in the ground.
Gray is the wall that divides,
Or the cluster that floats over you.
Gray in different tones 
Of a Monochromatic palette.
Gray is the favorite choice of the ideal (utopia),
Of the ironic and the cynic.
Gray is not  absolute black, 
Nor a milky white.
Gray is gray,
Although gray could be closer to the silent tones of darkness,
Or to the washed away noise of light. 
Forms vary, from time to time,
But the color gray remains the same.
Gray is always gray,
It’s the neutral state of radical change.

The Rain
A city fell from the sky
Like a drop of rain
More cities followed up,
And the rain turned into a storm.
First it made a puddle,
Then it flooded into a lake.
The lake turned into an ocean,
With no shore in sight.
The first drops,
Or cities if you want to called them like that,
Looked original, because their forms were unique.
After the first shower stopped,
A second rain started,
This time the drops looked like the first ones.

Cities of the Avant-Garde
Spread from What About It? Part 2

1 comment:

  1. Hi who wrote these poems, they are beautiful - i love them.