world but the point

Poetry is dead! The young poet exclaimed, slashing the throat of chickens with a Parker pen, as if recently he had struck upon the secret of the infinite. Bloodied but calm, aware that there is nothing new with the claim, the unimpressed audience stayed on their chairs secretly wishing the resurrection of lifeless fowls on the stage. Such foul language, they said, must not come from the mouth of poets. The literary matriarch could only raise her thinning brow in approval knowing how the fellow now suffers from multiple personalities.

There is a moment in schizophrenia when one believes that a laundry list or the yellow pages is poetry. A study by a zoologist from Oxford showed that a chicken ably chooses a free run to a cage even if food is put inside the cage. Clearly madness is not present among birds. Where does it reside then? Asked the young poet as he read the last name and phone number in his list of automechanics. While the answer is clearly in his head, he can no longer see it as it is, as his eyes now see only feathers but not the chicken.