Rabbits in the sink
No, it doesn't work. Not right now anyways. The tones are there, merging
into a tune, but the effect is gone. The piano
offers no relief, no catharsis. I'm thinking out loud
again.
And there are rabbits all over the place. She is disappointed in me,
again. Seems the only thing I really know how to do, is fail her
– and fuck things up. I'm good at that.
Guess someone's gotta have
that talent. Can't even spell
right now, and it was only a five-letter
word.
Feeling dazed – not really "here"
in any sense of the word.
Been like that most of the day. Guess that's why I'm hiding in a piece of paper.
The five-letter word just
failed me again.
Cigarette.
We all gotta die of something, I guess. You gotta have your poison, to survive
in this sick world. At least it conveys
a temporary numbness. Some degree
of comfort.
Or maybe that's just
an illusion.
There are rabbits in the sink
again.
They're planning something, with little green pieces of paper.
Maybe they've come to save us.
Or exterminate us all.
It's hard to tell these days.
The rabbit
who lives in the closet under the sink
hasn't spoken
for 3 days now.
It's raining.
Not pouring, just raining enough to leave you soaked and annoyed.
The street is narrow, worn and deteriorated, like the rest
of this shit-city.
I'm no savior or saint. Deep down
I'm just as rotten as everybody else.
- or they're just as rotten as me.
It's hard to tell these days.
The lines grow blurred – or maybe it's just me. The buildings are dark
and decayed, like the murderers and prostitutes and social degenerates
who live there.
the television in my excuse for a living-room
keeps on droning ridiculous cartoons
the kind of stuff you find on MTV on a Thursday morning
at 4 am.
The cup of coffee on the table
went stale several hours ago.
Like my mind.
Stale coffee is all I have at the moment. I wonder if I'm hungry.
I'm not sure I eat.
Not sure I remember how to.
Still, some food would...
No, never mind.
Is it Thursday?
I think it is.
It's hard to tell these days.
Every day seems like Thursday. So far into the week, that Monday is lost in a haze,
but the weekend never shows up.
Or maybe there is no Weekend. Maybe the week doesn't end.
Or maybe there's nothing but weekend
and the week has been ending
every 3 days for the last two hundred fifty-thousand years
Or maybe it's only one hundred twenty-five-thousand years. I'm not sure.
I call him Jack.
The rabbit, I mean.
I can hear him counting: "42, 43, 42, 41, 43, 42..."
Or maybe I can't.
It's hard to tell these days.
Poetry by Lalando
Read 550 times
Written on 2009-10-20 at 18:36
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