Misplaced rabbits in sinks
Dad shot himself.
He said he couldn't stand the counting
of the rabbits in the sink.
I suppose the only thing we learn in life,
is that when it comes to it,
there is no purpose,
no meaning
no point.
Two years.
of running, hiding and stealing, of surviving from one day to the next.
Two years of selling my soul
on some god-forsaken corner
to whichever rich bastard happens to be behind the shaded windows
of the limo that pulls over.
There are rabbits coming out of her mouth.
Her hands are cold, her eyes unfocused, her skin
pale.
Her body hasn't moved
for two hours.
Or maybe it has.
It's hard to tell these days.
I live – survive one day at a time
A strange thought, that somehow I seem to have
escaped everything
That ties us down these days
The obligations, expectations, laws, rules, codes, ideas, concepts,
images, thoughts
and dreams
That seek to maintain
equilibrium
It must be Thursday. It always is.
I hope my little-sister makes it
She told me she can
Hear the rabbits count as well now
Or maybe she can't.
It's hard to tell these days.
Our lives grow more and more fragmented every day
The web of people that surrounds us stretches
Further
Suddenly strained
To breaking point
Friends and family are gradually reduced
To memories, voices, letters
And images on a screen
That steals our soul while it promises
Salvation
It's raining.
The bowels of the clouds seem to have turned themselves inside out
In a vain attempt to cleanse
This shit-hole of a city
Bowels do tend to get misplaced around here.
Or maybe they don't.
It's hard to tell these days.
Poetry by Lalando
Read 578 times
Written on 2009-10-27 at 14:16
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