Archive for August 6, 2011

For always

When it is getting obvious  there is an end to life,

and you  won’t be the first to live forever,

there occurs  a certain holy,  hasty  drive

to make sure, at least to some,  you’ll  kindly be  remembered.

But the question now is: how.

What can you do to well deserve posterity ?

If you are lazy,  ( well, like me) : reserve  a sort of poem,

in the shape of a last thought,

not just a rhyming showcase of illiteracy,

but one to make them never once forget

how well you wrote,  and how well wrought

this was, as nothing else should matter

than they remember you with love,

because you wrote to them a f***ing letter.

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82 and 84

They meet at funerals and such

and  ask each other how they are

with little notice of the answer.

It really doesn’t matter to them much,

as long the other won’t say:  “I have cancer”,

furthermore they do not really care.

So little what they say is true or very real,

not honest and not meant to be remembered.

It is just said, so that the other doesn’t  feel

the failure of some real and hard emotions.

They have this code, and  never go beyond

the borders of  what decency allows them.

As they are sisters, there ‘s an unseen, sacred  bond.

As long the answer isn’t : “I have cancer.”

 

The ferry left at 3 pm

While on the ferry no one speaks,

two passengers are deep in thought,

a tired husband and his wife,

the hauling wind outside explains

that we are all alone in life.

While on the ferry no one speaks,

they will arrive in port at five.

Outside a touch of frost

The bar is closed. Still, from the alley, one can hear

the laughter and the hollow cries

of men, while throwing up their beer,

together with their portions of French fries.

Inside the bitter smell of yeast remains, some stools were thrown.

Gone is the feast. The bar is closed.

And the old girl with lipstick smeared all over,

tries to make it home on her red stiletto heels.

She feels the cold night air, but doesn’t care.

The bar is closed. The music over.

The lights are dim, the barman is alone.

Like every night the bottle’s trying to seduce him.

And every night he fights his lonely, hopeless fight. Again the fight is lost.

The drink is free, his trembling hand lifting the glass.

The bar is closed. It once again is night. Outside, a touch of frost.

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