Nostradamus was a French physicist and astrologer in the 16th century. It's true but strange that a lot of his prophecies have already been translated into reality.
1.
Dear, how many pages will you fill with my oracles? Were you with these, you would soon forget to ask why this city sucks in anything like quicksand, why the oceans are greedy like tycoons, why the sky turns blue like pain and why dreams of the future fly like dust in the wind. You know chaos breeds life when order breeds habit; much order brings clumsiness into our calm seasons. Yes, all I can do like a savior to free us of this deadlock is set a frenzy of words ringing in the ears of the fastidious and let all the flowers of mystery bloom on the ruins.
I am nobody other than myself, another Nostradamus, goddamn given the gift of prophecy like classic Cassandra, abandoned to the appetite of the spirits, godly or ghostly. I work like a siren as in the time of war or natural disaster; this burden feels like Sisyphus' boulder up the mountain. Even as the goddess of sleep sings a lullaby into my ears clients or friends – they all knock hard on my door. Just like everybody, I marched towards the tempting future, thought happiness has wings not to get burnt in fire and glimmers on the mirrors of my eyes will always blaze.
I wonder how I can stand secure against a falling world. Are the blokes around the corner in confusion hurled? How can I stop them from falling down like bridges? What? Just a way of scaring people of my prophecy? Not really like those scarecrows in your kitchen garden. My longing after immortality? Not that, let your sense know what dire effects from my prophecy flow. Oops! I hardly know which are necessities and which luxuries. Our meeting this way is just fate. And life is a tale of the worthies forsaken for worms. It's strange that even before our tardy efforts, we find some devilry has loosened upon the map of our minds and some deep damage done to the smooth skin of our sensibility.
I am not really kidding! Why not a joyful song I myself raise? Wherever I turn my eyes, no gilded scenes nor fresh vistas open up nor any greenery encompasses me around nor do I tread by a purling stream or by a painted meadow. No, I see by the ditch at midnight, parched leaves flutter as vampires, shadows gather like apparitions and dark spirits ramble.
2.
Things alter: by that time oracles started flooding in. The first years were the best; then I went into a decline; now all those notions of a normal being are gone out of me, my motto runs: never explain nor apologize. And I no more wander hand in hand with love; the road doesn't seem 'a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor.'
What about my ex-wife, ex-viper that twined round me? I ain't a herpetologist; never been so sex-worn in my life, never been deprived of sex-orgy and vigour, always intent on making love to her, fiercely like a sex-Viking, sending wild shivers down her back; all these were part of dolce vita in a cold weather. Then I thought why I should heat up my balls for someone's black hole. Oracles come when trollops no more knock on my door. It's right to leave off sex, dear, and even to leave out, for the oracles; there is no road to Oracle so easy as that of copulation.
Leave it at that. I still remember the day I reasoned myself out of my labyrinth: Knock off the chains of your lust and keep far away from that serpentine desire. An orgy looks alluring seen through the mists of righteous indignation. In anguish, I look back on the years I had spent prying into Curiosa and watching how smoothly my lust glided on the flesh. My genital! Just an aged rattler that forgets how to hiss.
Poetry by Sofiul Azam
Read 788 times
Written on 2005-10-06 at 18:29
Tags Anxiety
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Another Noatradamas
1.
Dear, how many pages will you fill with my oracles? Were you with these, you would soon forget to ask why this city sucks in anything like quicksand, why the oceans are greedy like tycoons, why the sky turns blue like pain and why dreams of the future fly like dust in the wind. You know chaos breeds life when order breeds habit; much order brings clumsiness into our calm seasons. Yes, all I can do like a savior to free us of this deadlock is set a frenzy of words ringing in the ears of the fastidious and let all the flowers of mystery bloom on the ruins.
I am nobody other than myself, another Nostradamus, goddamn given the gift of prophecy like classic Cassandra, abandoned to the appetite of the spirits, godly or ghostly. I work like a siren as in the time of war or natural disaster; this burden feels like Sisyphus' boulder up the mountain. Even as the goddess of sleep sings a lullaby into my ears clients or friends – they all knock hard on my door. Just like everybody, I marched towards the tempting future, thought happiness has wings not to get burnt in fire and glimmers on the mirrors of my eyes will always blaze.
I wonder how I can stand secure against a falling world. Are the blokes around the corner in confusion hurled? How can I stop them from falling down like bridges? What? Just a way of scaring people of my prophecy? Not really like those scarecrows in your kitchen garden. My longing after immortality? Not that, let your sense know what dire effects from my prophecy flow. Oops! I hardly know which are necessities and which luxuries. Our meeting this way is just fate. And life is a tale of the worthies forsaken for worms. It's strange that even before our tardy efforts, we find some devilry has loosened upon the map of our minds and some deep damage done to the smooth skin of our sensibility.
I am not really kidding! Why not a joyful song I myself raise? Wherever I turn my eyes, no gilded scenes nor fresh vistas open up nor any greenery encompasses me around nor do I tread by a purling stream or by a painted meadow. No, I see by the ditch at midnight, parched leaves flutter as vampires, shadows gather like apparitions and dark spirits ramble.
2.
Things alter: by that time oracles started flooding in. The first years were the best; then I went into a decline; now all those notions of a normal being are gone out of me, my motto runs: never explain nor apologize. And I no more wander hand in hand with love; the road doesn't seem 'a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor.'
What about my ex-wife, ex-viper that twined round me? I ain't a herpetologist; never been so sex-worn in my life, never been deprived of sex-orgy and vigour, always intent on making love to her, fiercely like a sex-Viking, sending wild shivers down her back; all these were part of dolce vita in a cold weather. Then I thought why I should heat up my balls for someone's black hole. Oracles come when trollops no more knock on my door. It's right to leave off sex, dear, and even to leave out, for the oracles; there is no road to Oracle so easy as that of copulation.
Leave it at that. I still remember the day I reasoned myself out of my labyrinth: Knock off the chains of your lust and keep far away from that serpentine desire. An orgy looks alluring seen through the mists of righteous indignation. In anguish, I look back on the years I had spent prying into Curiosa and watching how smoothly my lust glided on the flesh. My genital! Just an aged rattler that forgets how to hiss.
Poetry by Sofiul Azam
Read 788 times
Written on 2005-10-06 at 18:29
Tags Anxiety
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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