I remember R., who not even wrote a single line,
But he had this wild black hat and always carried a book.
F., who loved absynth, and absynthic-poetry he did wrote.
C., the surrealist, who always wrote with irony, to run away
From what he believed [he believed nothing, of course].
H., who became a poet the day he met Z. and quited
The night she quited him.
And how about old Q., who went to Africa and lost
All his major work in the Atlantic?
I remember L., who wrote a few stylish things,
But never showed one to us.
T., the poet of the philosophic-machine-gun,
Who adored to repeat the word «metaphysics».
A, who studied all the romantics and had big fights with
E., who just wrote a poem in her entire life.
(It was a great one, we must agree.)
And P., who locked himself at home doing nothing because
He believed that was the only thing a XXth century poet should do.
I remember and think, with my positivistic glamour, that poetry is
Nothing but a memory of a lost magic or wisdom.
An existence technique to do alone, sitted in your victorian brown sofa.
But one day I'll come after you.
And that day, darling, I'll carry all my poems in a dead angel's sugar bag.
And you, because you're not an idiot, will kiss me.
Telling me I never existed and it was just poetry.
All the time.