That caterpillar called poetry
Left the nest of wasps
To chase a blazing butterfly
His holy foreskin consumed by rainbow
His crotch clasped by magical quill
That caterpillar called poetry
Hiding behind the book of biology
Shaken by tremor of emotions
Rejected the world of underwear
To become what he had always been
That caterpillar called drunk poetry
A poetry betrayed by its own words
Walked in straight line to reach truth
Kissed a bed bug at city square
Underneath statue that was once Neruda
That butterfly called poetry
Seducing caterpillar at Iris café
With vengeful vagina and golden tits
A rainbow drowned in river of beer
Still exists as color of blood
That caterpillar called anti poetry
Is he a physicist or a puppet?
A rebellious maggot in world on bees
Who carries grief in portable coffin
With a telephone that doesn’t ring
That wasp called money
Is repelled by filthy maggots
Kills art with his venomous sting
But not every artist is faggot
Some holes can’t be filled by penis
That poetry called caterpillar
Exists only in form of memory
Dissolves into nothingness
Reincarnates as rainbow butterfly
To tell story of its transformation
That caterpillar called poetry
Presents itself naked
Devoid of punctuation marks
Stripping itself of alphabets
Till all that remains are emotions
That caterpillar called cinema
A psycho magical journey
The testament of his testicles
That gently caresses your conscious
Gives erection to your soul
That caterpillar called eternity
A fluttering fragment of time
Contains everything in its nothingness
Mythical existence in world of illusion
Like a bird singing in family tree
In my vain pursuit of writing a review of Endless Poetry I’ve written something gibberish, that’s neither endless nor poetic. But let me clarify, this is not a review, the same way Endless Poetry is not a movie. It’s an act of destroying self-ego by means of art. But some blind devotees (such as I) like to call it ‘the creation of God’. I feel like the alchemist at the end of magical journey of conquering The Holy Mountain. I’m the prisoner of my illusions who is not willing to return to reality. But if he (Jodorowsky) goes to Paris to revive surrealism and lives the life he has already lived, that would mean that everything is magical.
