Filed under: it's just me. you dont have to care.
(It might be
that)
when
a painted wall
peels,
on its own,
it gets
rid
of dusts and
cobwebs of
photographs
and
words that
injure
Silence
in its gut.
As when
a tiled floor is
mopped—it takes
away
the stamped
labyrinths
(of,
say,
two pairs of soles.
Tell me—
if this skin,
against
this flesh,
is scrubbed
off like the paint
on the wall
—will looking
at you
feel
any difference
as one should feel
leaving
without footprints?).
Filed under: it's just me. you dont have to care.
caedmon,
hey.
do not show up now. you can not handle me now.
i won’t make myself manageable for you.
you will just ruin your life.
and i will just ruin my life too.
so please do not show up yet.
Filed under: it's just me. you dont have to care.
we are no more than a pair of slippers. you’re my right,i’m your left. i’m your right,you’re my left; and vice versa. we look alike, in the mirror i’m you. i look exactly like you.
we are no more than a bubble gum. i just love to chew you until you’re neither sweet nor minty, until you become saliva. we are no more than the taste of saliva.
we are no more than shit. we have to be eaten alive or dead twice, thrice, they dont care. and they get everything out of nothing, as nothing as shit. so we become shit: the “shitee” and the “shitter”.
we are no more than immature poets. we immitate “mature” poets. and when will we mature? until we learn how to cheat?
we are no more than mothers. we are sucked and we suck. and life sucks. the least we can do is suck back.
we are no more than nikki, or kae… we feel we are them sometimes.
we are no more than stretch marks, hair split-ends and breaking callous. we are the flaws.
AND the dodos are more than just what and who we are.
