The moment when some will learn
how to grow wings,
as their new limbs;
they’ll immediately spread them wide
and fly high to the sky;
and without having any bleak hue of guilt
will shit on the heads of those
who propagate potato-existentialism.
without any bleak hue of guilt, —
this sensation of being
artificially gauged to the time
fettered by the tourniquet of the suit.
measured by a number of desperate attempts
of the molecules of caffeine to penetrate
membranes of your brain-cells.
watching her fixing the bra and the hair
in the next cubicle
adds an extra dimension to the moment.
(I know, you can watch it in the infinite loop.)
the resistance is futile
to the subtle impulses of your withering libido.
(bite the bullet, it will later dissipate
during a conference call)
another coffee break,
another stolen look.
you call it morning
I call it a self deceit.
trompe l’oeil – visual illusion in art, especially as used to trick the eye into perceiving a painted detail as a three-dimensional object
at the dawn of a new day
I meet the new me.
I usually meet him this time of the morning.
he has my old eyes and thoughts,
same skin and the same hands.
he might have a few more white hairs on the head
and in the beard than I had a day before.
I don’t know how different we are,
but I always hope that we are somewhat
the hope dissipates by the dusk
of an old new day.
stormy wind, wooden tongue
a cracked porcelain of your lips.
that pain which is clenched in the fists
of this frozen vale of your life.
I would crush this ennui into million snowflakes,
yet the spunk is no longer around.
our uniform minds
are being set to work
like a clock
between the long coffee breaks
we take while we’re at work.
our decadent hopes
haunts our nights
with carnal thoughts
decorated with red wine and meat
backdropped with raw bodies.
at the dawn
the hate overflows us
as we leave the house
(on the empty stomach and mind)
while our beloved
tranquil and refined
caressed by the sunbeams.