the inanity (part 4).

IV.

Virtual stabbing wounds
of the disoriented neurons.

The uniformity of a sound
through the whispering bravado.

Mind melt on the bun
blue rare steak a la mode.

Deteriorating time
on the moldy pancetta.

Stomping boots on the streets
whistling sound of fall.

Rustling leaves on the wall–
days go by.

Emerald eyes on the other end
of the rabbit hole
Open wooden box at its bottom.

You lay your hand on my forehead.

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Non revocare potes, qui periere dies*

We spoke about many things,
but the words were sterile.

Some people on the street
where projecting their
indifference on us;

Towards us.
towards the world around.

She had cup of coffee,
I had the time,
and the past had us all.

Then all the words turned into
the rubble under our feet.

and someone asked about God.


(lat.) Lost time is never found again

nocturnal #6 / maybe tomorrow

“is that a smoldering ember interspersed between the kaleidoscopic mementoes?”

“no, silly, it is a moon, almost full, only missed in a lapse of a perpetuity.”

“you,  you know, your eyes are too deep,
especially in the darkness of this unfamiliar room”

(a bit embarrassed)

“you always have this smile, when you’re making me confront my blunders
and I never find any words in my defence.”

(notice that clock doesn’t display the time, anymore)

“do you know what is the time now?”

“the time, now? there is no time.
not yet.”

(maybe tomorrow)

  • kissing me.

a conversation #2

I was waiting for the traffic light to change,
watching passing cars on the opposite side of the avenue.

“time is flying”, I sighed, and turned the music on.

“When the music’s over…”, the radio played.

“you’re always complaining about the time! it is barely moving for me, though”,
my oldest daughter replied.

(chewing gum and peeking into her iPhone)

“it is because you don’t appreciate it”, I said.
“see, Monday was yesterday, now it is Friday afternoon”.

(the hypocritical pinch, came afterwards in the evening, after I closed the prayer book)

étude #15

running words
down the streets
down the avenues.

the City writes a poem
on your skin.

(I still feel the kisses you rubbed last night into my skin)

no rain,
just a torrid asphalt
and the noise of the chipping hammers
in the air.

people come,
go,
passing by together
or standing
alone.

waiting for a cab,
for the traffic light to change,
for a change in life,
getting old while waiting.

waiting to die.

the City writes a poem
on the back of your eyes.

chasing words
down the streets
down the avenues
till you’ll die.