Fragments from October 2017

Fragment 1:
It is the fear of death that drives
me to squeeze the ink out of this pen;
otherwise, I would not be here
writing in a crowded coffee shop.
(It is very unusual for a man to die
in a coffee shop.)
I’ve been coming here to write
as often as I can.
The waitress knows my name.

Fragment 2:
The first sentence I ever wrote
(without being told to write)
was a secret and a silent declaration
in blue.
A childish sentence on a piece of paper
composed of three words.
I hid it under the mattress.
I was thirteen or fourteen years old.

Why I wrote “I love N—-”
on that silly piece of paper
with a fountain pen
I must go back in time to find out.



I Hate Writing

Reading books in Yerevan, Armenia

The truth is that I hate writing.
Putting words on paper makes my stomach turn.
My sentences are undigested thoughts.
My poetry is brain vomit.

I think it’s because I read too much.
Reading is like eating – the amount of shit that you will produce is proportional to the amount of food you have consumed.

But when you eat too much, you’ll puke.
And when you read too much, you’ll write.

But, of course, there are different types of writers. For instance, there are those who write without reading too much. Their works are not vomit.

It’s their feces you are deciphering.