Aris Fioretos Poems

The first thing you will forget
Is the voice, a form
And not a substance.
...

Waddle, waddle, I hear you whisper,
Waddle in the dark, comical
Little apocalyapse, waddle,
...

Tiny, psychic automaton,
What makes my heart pound
Like a boiling egg?
...

I am addressing this communication to the future,
In the hope that a soul, pliable enough,
Shall be moved by it.
...

To be nothing,
Waiting for un-
Strangeness
...

In that other automaton-limbo
I think
Of what you have to overlook
...

It is all borrowed paraphernalia here,
A desolate arrangement
For the incomplete. Guile,
...

Fatigue, oh what
Fatigue . . . Far too many
Birds, flies, worms,
...

I, too, am looking for that deathless present,
But believe me, beyond that we share
Nothing at all. For you, life is perhaps
...