yet another rabbit-story...
Filled with derelict husbands and derelict spouses
in worn-down streets
I try as I may
to get by, day by day
there is no reason to be – lest you are high
Creeping along the gutter 'neath this god-forsaken sky.
I survive,
I manage to stay alive.
What I do, does not come under the heading of "living",
no matter how you twist or distort the idea.
It all boils down to a very simple fact: "I am here"
Through sheer persistence
I claw my way through my meager existence,
One translucent bottle of cheap Boris Jeltzin Vodka at a time.
I drink it clean – can't afford the lime
My method of survival being that of a cockroach
- A mere oversight on behalf of reality.
And the rabbits in the sink
Start whispering to me, when I can no longer talk or see or think
Along a straight line
You wouldn't happen to have another bottle of wine?
Neither colour nor taste is important.
Once you get close enough to the bottom of the bottle
And existence in general
It is no longer the cause, but the effect
That matters
Or maybe it isn't, maybe we're all just a bunch of mad hatters
Maybe another doze of Mescaline will teach me how to fly
Or let me catch another fleeting glimpse of an acid-green sky
Or maybe it won't, maybe I'll simply end up being lost in a maze
With a young girl in the centre, counting 41,42, 43, her eyes ablaze
It's hard to tell these days
I live
Like a vulture
Roaming these god-forsaken streets
Littered with torn pieces of paper, whose fragmented fading letters
And immobile monochrome pictures have lost
Any relation to reality, they might once have possessed
Filled with lies and fantasies that no one could ever have guessed
And rabbits in sinks are stealing
the fading headlines with their incessant counting
Now lost forever in those ever-growing seas
of lost minds and lost ideas
that are the past
most of them were never meant to last.
With weary feet and tattered clothes
I make my way
day by day by day by day
from one place to the next
the destination being of no importance
The roads are battered, beaten and worn
Torn
Like the lost souls travelling upon them
With nothing but a broken, battered, half-remembered history
and nothing but a bottle for company
And the lime-green liquor-bottles are never full
Just varying degrees of empty
Like most of the people around here
Who refuse to believe or see or hear
The wisdom of the rabbits
They would rather die than let go of their habits
And maybe they will
It all depends how far the mind strays
Or maybe it doesn't
It's hard to tell these days.
A hail of forsaken rabbits in sinks
with dirt-streaked white fur and red eyes
Are unleashed from the skies
A final insult to reality, unleashed in full force upon this shit-hole of a city
The rabbits in the sink know neither remorse nor pity
It must be Thursday.
It always is.
So far into the week, that every incident preceding it seems lost
to progressive mental decay
and the rabbits in the sink are still counting, always counting
forty one, forty two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five
the counting is what keeps the rabbits alive
they mustn't break their concentration
they cannot cease this mathematical desecration
and I hide in an alley, in a cardboard box
and take another sip of Boris Jeltzin on the rocks
we seemingly live in a world, where even presidents become consumable
at least as a strong spirit, he serves some practical end
or so I would pretend
casting the now empty bottle aside
I move on, once again, seeking another place to abide
And the rabbits in the sink are everywhere, in sinks
But they don't care, methinks
For anything but the numbers they ceaselessly recite
"Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three", their chant drones on through the night
Like some sort of warped Fibonacci-sequence on speed
I keep on moving, sporadically, along whichever road appears around the next bend
Making my way towards some end
I'm way too old to give a fuck about geography
Right now my mind is straying through exciting new strawberry-fields, you see
Or maybe you don't
Or maybe you do, even though you won't
It's not the only thing that matters, anyways
Or maybe it is
It's hard to tell these days
Poetry by Lalando
Read 671 times
Written on 2010-04-21 at 23:27
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Forsaken rabbits in the sink
Hiding in the shadows of derelict housesFilled with derelict husbands and derelict spouses
in worn-down streets
I try as I may
to get by, day by day
there is no reason to be – lest you are high
Creeping along the gutter 'neath this god-forsaken sky.
I survive,
I manage to stay alive.
What I do, does not come under the heading of "living",
no matter how you twist or distort the idea.
It all boils down to a very simple fact: "I am here"
Through sheer persistence
I claw my way through my meager existence,
One translucent bottle of cheap Boris Jeltzin Vodka at a time.
I drink it clean – can't afford the lime
My method of survival being that of a cockroach
- A mere oversight on behalf of reality.
And the rabbits in the sink
Start whispering to me, when I can no longer talk or see or think
Along a straight line
You wouldn't happen to have another bottle of wine?
Neither colour nor taste is important.
Once you get close enough to the bottom of the bottle
And existence in general
It is no longer the cause, but the effect
That matters
Or maybe it isn't, maybe we're all just a bunch of mad hatters
Maybe another doze of Mescaline will teach me how to fly
Or let me catch another fleeting glimpse of an acid-green sky
Or maybe it won't, maybe I'll simply end up being lost in a maze
With a young girl in the centre, counting 41,42, 43, her eyes ablaze
It's hard to tell these days
I live
Like a vulture
Roaming these god-forsaken streets
Littered with torn pieces of paper, whose fragmented fading letters
And immobile monochrome pictures have lost
Any relation to reality, they might once have possessed
Filled with lies and fantasies that no one could ever have guessed
And rabbits in sinks are stealing
the fading headlines with their incessant counting
Now lost forever in those ever-growing seas
of lost minds and lost ideas
that are the past
most of them were never meant to last.
With weary feet and tattered clothes
I make my way
day by day by day by day
from one place to the next
the destination being of no importance
The roads are battered, beaten and worn
Torn
Like the lost souls travelling upon them
With nothing but a broken, battered, half-remembered history
and nothing but a bottle for company
And the lime-green liquor-bottles are never full
Just varying degrees of empty
Like most of the people around here
Who refuse to believe or see or hear
The wisdom of the rabbits
They would rather die than let go of their habits
And maybe they will
It all depends how far the mind strays
Or maybe it doesn't
It's hard to tell these days.
A hail of forsaken rabbits in sinks
with dirt-streaked white fur and red eyes
Are unleashed from the skies
A final insult to reality, unleashed in full force upon this shit-hole of a city
The rabbits in the sink know neither remorse nor pity
It must be Thursday.
It always is.
So far into the week, that every incident preceding it seems lost
to progressive mental decay
and the rabbits in the sink are still counting, always counting
forty one, forty two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five
the counting is what keeps the rabbits alive
they mustn't break their concentration
they cannot cease this mathematical desecration
and I hide in an alley, in a cardboard box
and take another sip of Boris Jeltzin on the rocks
we seemingly live in a world, where even presidents become consumable
at least as a strong spirit, he serves some practical end
or so I would pretend
casting the now empty bottle aside
I move on, once again, seeking another place to abide
And the rabbits in the sink are everywhere, in sinks
But they don't care, methinks
For anything but the numbers they ceaselessly recite
"Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three", their chant drones on through the night
Like some sort of warped Fibonacci-sequence on speed
I keep on moving, sporadically, along whichever road appears around the next bend
Making my way towards some end
I'm way too old to give a fuck about geography
Right now my mind is straying through exciting new strawberry-fields, you see
Or maybe you don't
Or maybe you do, even though you won't
It's not the only thing that matters, anyways
Or maybe it is
It's hard to tell these days
Poetry by Lalando
Read 671 times
Written on 2010-04-21 at 23:27
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
