poem

This would have been a great poem, hadn’t it been for the formalist paradigm

This house.

We take our time and drink tea on the second floor
Like cats
Yawning on the pillows,
Leaving slobbers on the wooden walls
In silence.
grotesque social intimacy!

Familiar faces..

As 10 pairs of eyes examine the room, no words interfere
With the formal sound of cups,
Of smoke breathed out of our toasted lungs,
It’s the sound of pressed wrinkles
with the “look-at-me but don’t look!” expression.
never meet the eyes, you self-sufficient bastard!

…with no names, please.

- Ma’ name iz Leon an’ I come from everywhere.
He wades in the dribbled tables, in the snotty ashtrays.
He drinks his wine from plastic glasses.
One sip after another,
Looking towards the eyes
And talking.
– we speak Internationalish!

Did you see “Le Bal”, 1983?