Walking Around, a Pablo Neruda spinoff
It so happens I am sick of the sun.
And it happens that I walk into oblivion
feeling the weakness of a newborn fawn like a direly crippled old man
steering its way into unforgivable fog.
the smell of noxious flames makes me cringe.
The only thing I want is love.
The only thing I want is to create something so beautiful that the world melts in awe,
no razors, no shoes, no fear of dirt.
It so happens that I am sick of my undying greed for life
and my impeccable taste for beauty.
it so happens I am sick of love.
Still it would be marvelous
to scream at the heavens
or dance in ghostly fields.
It would be great to go through the streets with a lifted weight
letting out ells until I explode.
I don't want to go on being afraid,
helpless, needy, unaccustomed as a newborn babe to the harsh world
going on down, into subconscious thoughts
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
In don't want so much hate or greed.
I don't want to go on as a shadow hidden under an oak,
alone under tedious glares, a warehouse of truth,
half decayed, dying of beauty.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my nonchalant step and uncaring gaze
and it howls in anger like a poisoned wolf.
And it pushes me into the dark, into some horror of imminent death,
into flesh devouring mouths where acid eats away at everything it touches
into nothingness.
There are blood colored birds, and digest
hanging over inconspicuous passageways,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors that break upon the gaze,
there are monsters everywhere, and life, and
death
I stroll along the unwalked path, with my stolen heart, my crutch.
my everlasting life, forgetting all that ever mattered.
I walk by the door from which it came
and sang with rage,
sorrow, famine and mud
from which splinters of glass are falling.