Reflection of Nick Drake’s “Three Hours”

three hours was not enough
to save the silence
inside cold concrete
to cling to the wall
to pour out sand into the sea
to clench conscience in one’s fist
to hide one’s temple behind a vein

salt is itching in the skin of a palm
the lines of life have gone astray
if you did not find the master
you won’t find any slaves
life from troubles to turmoil
is measured by rusty scales
why do we need minutes
if we don’t keep the count of time

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questions #8

a chaotic map
of roads,
sidewalks,
hidden passages,
roundabouts,
illegal U-turns,
driveways.

and the irony is,
that someone already
walked that map,
before.

and the irony is
that someone already
learned that the pain has
a different grip,
and the blood
has a different taste
in the mouth,
before.

and the irony is,
that someone already
knows what will be
in the end,
before.

but can’t show you
the right way to stop,
and tell you if it
hurts
or
not.

the inanity (part #7)

I’m patient.
Yes, I am patient.

I can calmly wait in the line to urinals,
and mumble “God’s gonna cut you down”,
while you’re struggling with your neglected prostatitis.

I can wait,
while the coldness of the restroom
is embracing my quiddity;
putting me in the center of the Universe
or its outskirts.
(depends on a ventilation).

I’m not Johnny Cash,
I’m not wearing black
I wasn’t blessed with calm bass-baritone.

but I can wait,
without knowing people’s faces
behind the toilet doors
or their shivering bodies
making a gestalt image of a macrocosm
(again, depends on a ventilation).

or only an exosomatic memory, —
recorded on the misted mirror.