 |
| Nightflight 120 x 120 x 2 cm, acrylic, oilpastel on canvas |
THIS POEM
This poem
should not be taken as a sedative.
See it as a
warning. Or just a bunch of words.
But do not even
assume it is medicinal.
Neighbors
we can ignore but not their
dogs who
stick their snouts into everything
and will
not be denied a good sniff. Who’s
the master
in this scenario? The man who thinks
he’s a
philosopher king ( Why? Because he drives
an Audi?) or the poodle he’s
bathing in
the communal garden?
I have no
qualms about ignoring
a boring
neighbor’s tame incoherencies
and can
still admire in a mode of aesthetic
appreciation
the elegance and poise
of his
poodle. Any poodle. Any beautifully speechless doggy.
Charley Don’t
Surf’s been said, but the unsaid
should stay
where it is, lost in a Parisian stairwell
that ends its
twisting passage at a door behind which
laughter-music-casual
sex
hinder words
from making their meaningful noise.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.