Poems and stuff by Maté Jarai…
Poems and stuff by Maté Jarai…

…divine geometry






In need of brain rewiring

because this system is outdated

I’m a roll of camera film

unmoving space, all void,

a ring-dial telephone

in a brick wall

surrounded in all those other

rings I can’t comprehend.


There’s no helmet on my head

not mapping the stars through

an interplanetary visor

I see only this and these things

a divine geometry is nonsense

when divinity is faceless

like the coming steps

if I’m wasting these ones.


Time has no subject

when this struggle is

timeless and heavy

quadrophonic moons

become part of conscious thought,

art of an unknown architect.


Interdimensional physics don’t

apply when you’re the

programmer in the core

of our walk beneath

that deep dark purple place.


Speed has no object when

it takes us only to Death

and I wouldn’t want to

spend a night in a bar with him

killing my buzz with his sombre

tales of Holocausts and all

the other genocides we

try to forget and renounce.


Self-awareness means

one day we’ll be Gods

making our own worlds

so I’m a story within a story

making another story

and my maker has a maker

so by that logic we’re

all divine and the meaning

of divinity is terminal.


I’m not ready for change

if I’m scared of it

which is why I’m still

a kid with a dream searching

for a black hole,

for my star to collapse

and follow itself

into the vapour of

never-having existed

all traces swallowed

despite all that uncountable mass.


It won’t make sense

like I don’t make sense

and maybe there in

that paradox finally, I,

the senseless, will find sagacity.


Without gravity

when the weight of me soars

and my tears fall upwards

ready to face my avatar

and the one who made

me their avatar.


We can all nod and sigh

grinning softly at each other

a chain of falsetto smiles

waiting for the second

bang after which

the cycle can begin again.


Distant stars optically enhanced

looks like paintwork

in motion at breakneck speeds

but it all seems pretend.


We can’t focus on that magic

because the atom splits again and again

and so do we more frequently

moving backwards through time

knowledge growing as we stand dwindling.




Little men here groom themselves

into Gods and fathers creating myths

and making news of words that

are just words without weight and worth

though I’m thinking this I’ve already said.


Repeating my gunfire infinitely

sound always misfiring

leaving just smoke, holes and cases,

interplanetary traces

through yellow lit leaves

dying and falling

when I speak feeling I’ve spoken

these words before in some

other place.


Sense is arbitrary so we’re all the centre

of the universe just waiting for our

cosmic dance to become intelligible.


I never liked waiting but for this I might.

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