What could I do? I was surrounded by troubled artists and house-poor scholars. I was sinking in melting tar on the collapsing streets. I was running from ill-tempered tax men. I was hiding from the parents of the youth I corrupted. I don’t want to be a troubled artist. I don’t want to be a prudish father. I don’t want to be the sold-out dolt who says, “that’s just the way this fallen world works.” Some people think the funniest things are important, while the really important things are funny! What can I do to change them? Their prudish fathers endorse their senseless logic. Their calculators are tapping loudly. They have evidence for all their selfish ideologies. What could I do? I can’t save them all. It makes me dizzy when I try to answer all their phone calls. I’m not technologically up-to-date. I lack the networks to accomplish the task
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
This is a roving captain infiltrating the fatherland. This is a machette guy on the motorcycle, sneering at a passerby. That is the magnet bride encircling the wounded knight. Infiltrating the warrior zone. Obeying the blowing winds and the hidden declarations of the motherland. “When something happens, seek me.” This is the musician wannabe limping through the foyer room. Guitar strings are pluckable. Doorway dwellers step inside. Crouch. Creep. Sneer. Outcast punks are aging before my eyes. Raging. Fueling inevitable heartbreaks. Oxidizing desires and lubricating their trigger-happy hearts. This is the fatherland. That is the motherland.