a black scarf wrapped around a white graceful neck was found
on the street
by a homeless person.
kissed the scarf with trembling lips and slimy hands stuffed the fabric
under
his multicolored rag.
another
classic;
a
lost and found ordinary story
which
anyone can see on the afternoon news
zapping through life,
a broken remote control
get close to the TV-set, see what’s on.
another scarf, another bum, another road, another story
to tell the kids, to tell posterity.
falling bread crumbs from rich tables, in content;
cockroaches crawling under, to
take part at the feast.
zapping
again and again, anxiously waiting for new reality shows
on
which he can fit in.
but
when the night comes, the red button is pressed
and
it all stops for a couple of hours in a surrealistic image
and
it never ceases to surprise him for that he never sleeps
while
searching for a world where he can safely dive.
heavy
steps on the stairs outside his nutshell
the
feelings hide behind ignorant curtains
and
fills his mind with purple mist.
he
runs to find another story although
he
didn’t sort the present out.
dwarfs
roam around the crippled mind
dark
corners waiting for the lights
nothingness
is timed using their scale
tired
of his vice he calls in sick
of
life.
progress
is spinning like a dice
numbered
steps decide his trajectory under a cloudy sky; no planes fly
in
a matter of years it all ends
the
mother that cries, modified genes, desired femmes and all
the
beams that hold the barns.
everything
collapsed on an afternoon broadcast
live
and for real, he leaves his nutshell in search for the same things
a
repetitive surprising journey, where he knows that he knows
but
he forgets to remember.
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