Noel Negele- Two Poems

Who Would've Known.

Who would've known

that to merely exist

would become more and more 

difficult;

In front of the mirror,

just standing there thinking or not thinking

-it makes little difference-

or when you wake up

and your feet fall flat on the floor

like shoes of someone dead

like a casket on its hole;

Or when you fall on the bed at night or morning

to fall asleep

- to switch off the horror for as long as possible-

20 beers drunk

or as sober as a staggering knife

jabbed into your mind.

Who would've known

that to merely exist

would increasingly climax

to terror and despair;

There should be signs of some kind

for some of us that can’t quite club this to inexistence

with our logic

( our "force of mind"),

there should be more kind women

to exceed more often and in more ways

than the simple glorious transcendence of lying on our beds

brushing the badness out of our hair and chest

pulling strings and inflating our egos, love and endurance;

There should be lectures

for us amateurs completely defeated by this, driven mad by this :

" Be careful, it all might become unbearable for a very long time."

You're left sprayed on the carpet

like someone's guts

wishing of being more brave,

of lifting the head above the level of this sadness

the sadness of existing

the pain of existing

the intolerable confusion, the abysmal awe

of being a human.

But in the end you are,

maybe more than the usual or maybe less

and kind of pathetic

( if not completely pathetic)

saying I love you more easily, just like them

weeping more often, just like them

drinking more often, not quite like them.

Who would've known

that to merely exist

would become such a lousy matter,

after all those years of simplicity

( childhood)

with a tick of conscience

mindless impulses

and love, so much love, so much innocence

like a fence around you

and the pain so minor

and the love so large

holding on to it

like a balloon lifting you away from

a world so much similar to an overfilled ashtray.

Demanding things from this world

like digging spurs into the sides of a horse,

all those tendencies to become something more 

all those expectations to evolve and progress

washed away and abandoned…

No one prepares you for this madness

some poets implied it,

but most of them did when they got old

and terrified of dying

and wrote only of the despair of the clock

only of the countless deaths hiding between each ticking;

but  you are young, still

with more future, supposedly, than past, more plus than minus.

I'll have to improvise upon this

grow some balls

thicken my insensitivity

or else it will brake me

it will brake me so badly

there won’t be any turning back,

you can tell by the distress it creates

when it takes hold of you

you can tell

that if the hold 

gets tighter

there will be no salvation.

Loneliness Is A Patient Friend.

Everything becomes less discouraging at the beach bar.

I order another shot with my beer

I observe the companied people

Not with anger any more, nor jealousy, or discontent

They don’t seem luckier anymore, nor happier,  

Nor meaningless,

The only meaningless thing is to pursue conclusions,

The waitress approaches me

Some shots are on the house

The bartender says

And I wave and wink at him

And the waitress asks how I do

I say I’m fine

How about you

She says just bored

I wave

The waitress’s cousin strikes a conversation

Loneliness gets up from next to me

And sits three chairs away

It raises its glass to me

It’s a natural thing now

Not an enemy,

The waitress’s cousin talks about her life

I wave when I must

And agree when is needed

The waitress says to her:

“ Noel doesn’t talk much”

“ Oh he’s like a machine.

You’ll have to throw a coin to make him talk.”

“ He is of a silent nature” says the bartender.

“ He just drinks a lot and doesn’t say much” says the waitress

And her eyes are fixed on me.

I wish I could tell them

That they bore me with their mediocrity

But I would look like a snob

Life is composed of mediocre things now

The waitress helps me light my cigarette

By shielding my lighter with her palms

We talk about her school

Something that doesn’t interest me in the least,

The conversation widens to a two hours extent

And the sun begins to go down.

I purpose a walk on the beach.

She accepts.

Loneliness follows from behind.

In the night we end up in my hotel room.

I say to her that she makes me feel alive

That that is very important to me

She says that now that she’s met me

Everyone else seem the same

An hour later she sleeps like a child.

I watch in awe and in confusion and disbelief.

She is so healthy and careless.

I watch her perfectly shaped ass and I smile. 

She is so healthy and careless and kind.

I wish for the time to stop.

In the morning she wakes up

And leaves for work.

From the balcony I watch her get on her motorcycle

And drive off.

I listen to the engine.

I listen to the birds.

I listen

I listen to the waves

The farther away you are 

The more peaceful they sound.