he doesn’t do a thing these days
so there is correspondingly nothing to write about
he’s waiting for his Russian visa
he’s waiting
meanwhile he reads the news
a bomb here, a bomb there
that’s nothing to write about, unless you’ve been there
running away from the storm
death must come like a stone-breaking storm
the wind caressing your cheeks
you sense there is something in the air
today’s a sunny day
and I am just about to go out for my six o’clock beer
::: ::: :::
Picture: A wonderful place for birds
(May 2008)
Just a thought: I made a lot of blurry pictures, and wrote many a blurry poem..
Poem revisited on August 28, 2012
Posts
//he doesn’t do a thing these days
ReplyDeleteso there is equally nothing to write about—
these days//
very strange ! I 've got the feeling that all things were growing in your head and that you let them out from time to time so they could wander now and then for us to catch a glimpse of them...
//well, today’s a sunny day
and I am just about to go out
for my six o’clock beer//
feel good ! tonight is a hot one
and I am just about to go out for my midnight broomfly around the moon It is often like cool beer or a kiss from the death wind...
//he doesn’t do a thing these days
ReplyDeleteso there is equally nothing to write about—
these days//
he must have been lying or perhaps he was trying to convince himself that there was nothing to write about—
these days.
For indeed, there is always something to write about.
That man in the ornate tower in Paris... is he gnatman, looking over the city and protecting the children?
ReplyDeleteNothing to write about?? And here I am wondering about the little pickpocket katyoneri. Did they sing and dance for you on your return? :)
Yes, there is always something to write about.