Poetry knows no measure

Felix Komarov



Poetry knows no measure.
It blows up the slave mind.
The poet in the arms of hetairai
Innocent pending the outcome of the moons.

He was drunk, debauched, useless,
Naive, stupid, in worldly Affairs.
He loved tormenting disease,
Sends and often tries...

He's a kamikaze of words and sounds.
He hanged elastic rhymes.
He's in the door to the dungeon secret knock
Deaf yells" I'm alive! I'm alive"!

It's a hurricane, he a tornado, homeless.
As the leaves he carries the worlds.
He's a scarab, in the quiet secluded,
He rolls the ball of earth from the mountain.

He dies in every word.
In the caesura, the Phoenix soars.
The Lord who created the world with love,
Is the only poet.