Thursday, May 16, 2013
Minced
Alert orange
The alarm is there, but you can’t find the clock,
your fist is annoyed
smashing nothingness,
wake-down, wake-down,
tear down this pillow,
what’s the matter
with you… Mr. Gorbachev!
Feathers do not fly,
matter doesn’t matter,
everything just comes, nothing goes
around,
you’re a meridian
having reached the pole,
losing all the likes
and the parallels.
Feathers still asleep,
alarm flies around,
your pillow killed the birds,
smashing nothingness.
Futuristic chitter-chatter
Sickness ain’t no women,
no more,
there’s a remedy: your calcium’s low,
so lime yourself,
Love’s a brand new therapy, a chemical,
delivered by alchemists,
offered at herbalists’ across town,
at different flacon sizes
after your body light and birth time zone,
Love’s also an old theory
and treatment,
by which people used to handle their loneliness,
symptoms only - it was not a cure
back then;
Free samples of healthy sadness,
offered as a fresh squeezed juice
or with Turkish coffee - quite a rarity,
with an old mosque flavor,
it keeps you up
if you fear plastic dreams.
Tea time, t-bone, t-shirts… you’ve heard of all ‘em tees,
good old physics,
the gift shop around the corner
occasionally sells them,
the seller therein is a bore, by the way,
like all materialists,
and - go figure - he’s German!
He is German to the bone, for Pete’s sake…
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