Περνούν οι ώρες, οι μέρες και δεν αλλάζει τίποτα. Φυσικά, λένε "όσα φέρνει η ώρα δεν τα φέρνει ο χρόνος", αλλά πάνε χρόνια από την τελευταία φορά που με κίνησε κάτι. Συναισθηματικά, πνευματικά, σωματικά. Μύθοι και πνεύματα, σκοποί και οινοπνεύματα, ιστορίες στο μυαλό, προβλήματα άλυτα, σκοτάδι και καπνός, διαδικτυακή κάλυψη αναγκών, πληκτική εργασία η άλλοτε χαρά... Κενό στη χαρά, στη λύπη, στη φαντασία, στην πλήξη, στη ζωή, στο ενδιαφέρον... Κενό.
I'm here negotiating my early release, trying to get the gadflies to leave. Trains shuffle along the track. Gadfly passer-bys smack their snacks. Eastern fishermen attack the math. Burly world-openers draw the fire back, inhale me in the swirling womb, push me to the outer moon. Coughed out feelings choke the fool. Burning questions smoke the room. I'm here negotiating stupid concepts with neurotic walkers, trying to get the gadflies to leave in peace. Melodic mothers swallow their babies with nursery hums and sleep-inducing song. Rain comes and goes and the passer-bys don't know which mood to throw. Sunshine cracks the surface of the sky. I'm here scratching the silver shavings off the lottery tickets of my mind.
"I begged her...I begged her!" He cried. "She turned away from me, covered in a veil of silence; walking out the door into the cold night air." His body trembled as he relayed the events of his evening to me. What do I say in a moment like this? What could I do to take his pain away? Nothing. I stared at him, blank-faced and squeezed his big toe, as he lay helpless on the hospital gurney in physical and mental pain. "They will do what they can to save your thumb".
Gold-diggers laughing at their shaking pan, sifting sand from yellowish nuggets of hope. Gold-diggers with the slippery fingers and the sweaty crevices, keeping secrets of speculative spots and digging holes. Gold digging old men, with a long shot strategy to compensate for their histories of lethargy. To compensate for their social rejection. To bury struggle once and for all under a mountain of quick wealth. Old unshaven men still angry at their drunken fathers shaking their wishing pans, gazing magically with their omniscient eyes. Today the sun is out and they attend to every sparkle. Scrap the gasps. Shrug the shoulders. Toss the sand. Refill the shaking-pan. Refill the hope chamber. There goes that damn woodpecker again, pounding away at his tree.
your clean short hair, your brown warm eyes, your caring smile, our empty promises drift around us, the pinks and yellows woven into the sky we sit under, the glittering lake in which our feet drip into, the soft humming of music delights our ears, you hand upon mine as you prop yourself up on one knee and ask me to take your name, the perfect person, in the perfect moment but that's a moment meant for someone else, i don't want perfect, i don't want beautiful. You'll never understand that i want the apartment without heating, the mould scuttling up the ceiling, the broken light dangling down engulfed in glittering spiderwebs, the stick man drawings on the walls, your tired arms scattered with scars and traces of acne draped around my waist, the freckles littering your skin like the constellations in the night, your dark unruly hair that sticks up at the back sometimes, your honest smile, your promise to never promise, your exposed thoughts holding mine. i want to love and be loved in the rotting corner of the world