Contemporary literature requires a new sort of emotional intelligence.
Lacking some kind of fermented complexity.
Just as I owe the city to serve as an escape from the perpetual beauty of Nature, modern romance proves to be the occasional, necessary hesitation against the classics.
We have forgotten what it feels like to shudder breathlessly at the mere thought of intimacy: a soft, tentative touch on a bare shoulder, a suggestive glance offered from across the atrium, interrupted by colonialist agenda.
We know not of these advances any longer. There is no ambiguity within enlightenment.
However, modernity has given us vigor. Strange, passionate ambition, feed by desire and a sort of primitive motivation.
Contemporary literature is hollow, but poets will try to fill it with politics, science, and psychology.
I do not believe any of it.
I believe in the subtly of anticipation, the desperation in each caustic breath, waiting, burning for whatever is to come.
YOU ARE READING
Silverfish
PoetryA compilation of written thoughts, poems, and short stories composed by myself
