Saturday, September 16, 2006

L. Waits

An old alley
Cunning beneath glasses
That could remind you of any place
But one
The long waiting lines
A tax-returns' cue
But inside your room
Faltering in what you need
As though it would really matter
In a day
To grab the world in one hand
To understand
To breath in

Conspicuous hours
Of conversations
Lacking in tar and nicotine
Lacking in caffeine
Exceedingly fearful
From that authenticity
Of the Gospels' author

From your own freedom
From those small choices
That lead to the wardrobe
With old wooden boxes
Containing unanswered prayers
Letters from a previous life
Even thoughts on Aristotle
Raw as your adolescence
Decadent in their abscence
Of wordliness
Of worldliness
Empty of recklessness
Items from the shopping channel
Containing oblivion
Empty chairs
And unwashed sights

It's rush hour inside here
But you couldn't be any less bothered
In your Angst
In your greed
In your unsound faith
Peering into a vacuum
Containing modern quotations
From interwoven stories
As though you yourself
Like Miriam
Could write your own legends
Like a grown-up Zelda
In anarchic language
Of saints and warriors
Of Christian mythos

He seems to run out of time
You tell yourself
Without being sure at all
For how long you've awaited
For how longer you will
Not at all taking pride
In your ability to hang
From threads of conceitedness
Of yearning
Embracing little artificial bodies
Like ties
Like lies
Daying anew
As though it were a rendez-vous
Of that warm day
When you saw the city springing forth
From within the aether
And turn firstly into light
Then into buildings
And so on

And he never rang again
After you shaked his hand
Wasting away
Two long years of whimsies
As though you were unprepared
To defy Gods and others
For the sake of a little sly
Of your own personal convenience
To keep you safe from betrayals
From adulthood
From satisfaction

Ransacking your own spaces
In the wilderness
Growing your windows
In a pane
Watering them anew
Every morning you awake
To the same oblivion
Of the blurry sight
That estrangement gifted you
Your problem with language
Unable to see
As though it were a piece of china
Useless for the posterity
But valuable
For a day like this
So flatly happy
Irrationally kind
Filled with tantrum
Divorced from the air

But unimportant
Calm down
Inside a hole
Curdle up inside
For it might hurt
It might end up in scotch
In a world

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