count me down, count me down!
still he wakes up every night
the smell of burning rubber
and that voice
echo in an echo
“i’m tight rope-can you handle me?”
.
this jewel, ruby blue
all of what i’ve been
now lying in your own two hands
pumping in your fingers
like a micro-puppy
.
the smell of burning rubber
and that voice
echo in an echo
“i’m tight rope-can you handle me?”
.
this jewel, ruby blue
all of what i’ve been
now lying in your own two hands
pumping in your fingers
like a micro-puppy
.
posted by schottkey at 10:13
3 Comments:
Does he wake up everynight? Still? Hmmmmm
[...]Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.[...]
[...]His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.[...]
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
Thanx for sharing
but-
did it have to be Sylvia?
Μην ψάχνουμε ξυραφάκια, ε;
Χαχαχαχα
Σας το έβαλα εν έδει ομοιοπαθητικής. Για χειρότερο. :-)
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