his black and white wrists were studded
with the Edinburgh liqueur,
his mum would try delouse him every morning I
tell you it was a wonder, to see him walking one meek leg
and then the other he craved for
the HAZARDOUS TIME right at the edge his
little oxford shoes,
sweetly sinking in the puddles sometimes
there is no way back home nor home
but a mildly exciting place for the numbness to be privy he would
live here and there do this and do that talk to
usandto them and his
lil' oxford shoes
sweetly trampling and crusing his first drag he
would say the coughing came out from the worst howling winds
I believed him for he was HOLY,
and the noisome and musty cigarette ends they would play on
the cobblestone pavement his ramshackle ideas his noontide saliva his cinnamon freckles
would cover my dreaming and while feeling hazy
up and down I would hear his steps in the morning I tell you,
it was a wonder, seeing him moving and burning the soles
of his oxfordlike shoes, bitting his coal nail tips looking
for a three tongue three way kiss in a nook
at the playground I tell you,
it was a wonder.
© Text: VICTORIA BARDOT, all rights reserved.
© Image: source unknown
a tiny blood box we have to rely on. It stands there, sunk in our chest, and til the final betrayal comes, we usually forget about it, we just wear it like a rhinestone, a piece of scrap whose story we have listened to too many times. Someone next to me is enjoying a whisky glass - my mind drifts to Kerouac's body rebelling against him, his blood vessels bursting, blowing out, I hear his voice calling his wife and his wife rushing him to the hospital and thinking how far away are now the careless warm nights on the road, in a synthetic place - a hospital where hope is pricey, with people coming out from aproximately thirty wombs everynight and aproximately thirty people getting into the earth's womb every morning.
