Poem 5

box the books, cage the cats, come up
a dressing-table full of talcum powder
laying my back on the kitchen floor and, funny, the ceiling is spinning
my special speciality unravels
and the unacceptable face of freedom is so bright
but, what about me, now I am here and you may just go and die in a far way war
I stay, curled up in safeness
a grey snapshot of normality, a blizzard of pink dreams, the risk is elsewhere
the Pulitzer lands on someone else’s lens
I frown, no dear, not for me, not this time
so endless the talk less days
here it is cold, too many carnal ghosts, hidden, lurking
cut short perfection
I could had had a rock’n’rollish way of life but I choose not to
dare taking it all too far, a bold gesture, no tears, no regrets
just the quiet preciousness of sterility
the disused courage ingrained in a soulless shell
roaming around re- writing the manuals, running from precipice
box the books, cage the cats, come up
suffocate the malaise, bribe failure, line every marble so straight, so tight
quit self-obsession, move on, dismantle ardour, give in to reason
now it is exile on the street behind the main street
through the window of the back balcony a glimpse of sea
some comfort, at last