Between two grey cars,
Littered hopes.
He walks
In self-hatred -
Parking lot -
He moves, sneaks -
Starved soul,
Slowly sinking in his ashes
While questionable silver -
It hits him like a bullet.
A kitsch attitude
And a psychedelic song -
Pseudo Indian in-between
Of marijuana and maharajah -
Where did his cloudy dreams go?
Drifting like an unfinished song
In a zoo of solitude – extinct is his name.
When the last note stops
All the others crash into it
And that’s how truth
Hits him like a bullet,
That’s how
The last drops of his sperm
End his only conceivable hope
In stinky medicalized rubber -
Joyless, he pays
And it hits him like a bullet.
She says
“Silver’s wasted on you” -
She says…
To the garden in her mind
In reality, on concrete, as she shivers,
Pale as the dark night,
She says…
How hands look for keys
While eyes taste the infinite bitterness
(The memory of sick skin).
A slow Brazilian rhythm
Fails to touch his heart.
Those keys
…Out of reach -
Her hand stirs the content
Of her dark leather bag -
Finally, she holds her life
Between her thumb and index,
She smiles…
He paid, joyless -
Drought burns his lungs
Where silent cough settled
Forever scorching dreams -
And it hits him,
Like a bullet:
Delusion gone,
Not a single soul is truthproof.