E-oE is false, through & through,

but came visiting twice

in my retreat,

where I keep my past under lock & key

He was a brave one,

successful in the world,

traveling in the style of Jack Kerouac,

three foreign wives to his credit

and many cannabis trips to Copenhagen,

but in spite of a lofty profession,

which he handled with great skill,

and lots of money that came with that,

he was always clinging to a misconception

of himself as inferior,

always in awe of his early friends' intellectualism

In his old age, when someone spoke of some writer,

poet, scientist or philosopher that he'd never heard of,

he always got back to you as soon as he could,

with a remark or two about the name that had come up,

pretending to be well acquianted with the works

of that person, in such detail

that it was perfectly clear that he'd consulted the web

SuK was & is devastatingly honest

and straightforward, with no mercy at all,

and this of his free will, of some kind of conviction;

not at all from any autistic spectral particulars,

or anything;

and just because he doesn't want to partake

in people's silly social games of hide & seek,

so if he is offered a gift that doesn't please him,

he won't accept it

He sees right through any and all ulterior motives

and tells it out loud and right there,

where you have no place to hide

He's not like most folks,

who'd go along with certain rules of the social game

and remain silent, although they're aware,

but on the other hand, he denies the world

– and more importantly himself -

his great, sublime artistic gifts;

his wondrous abilities in poetry, prose, sculpture, painting

and sound art,

that he exposed in his youth and early twenties,

but then left unattended and hidden,

retreating into his miniature apartment in stacks of books

and phonograms,

worrying about everything;

about things that people just notice and fix, on the sly

He is in lifelong denial of himself,

although he – in younger days – opened the world of art

and science

for the composer of these grievances

But then there is Swk, who approached

on the screen,

asking for communication

and the restart of a friendship that I faintly recall

from the early and mid Seventies,

soon in practice refusing what he'd asked for,

when I had decided to take him seriously,

thus releasing a battery of thoughts, ideas

and cultural paraphernalia on him,

where he sat, thinking about real estate and money,

when simultaneously claiming the state of a meditator per se

and almost a bodhisattva,

never reacting much to the matters

I released over him,

giving me no choice but to sack the channels

we'd opened for communication,

which proved to deliver nothing but nothingness

in my direction