RAT RACE?
Sometimes i walk the streets and look up
to a window and see someone using a computer.
The screen is always perpendicular to the wall
in the boxes they live in,
personal, private cubicles.
They have blue faces and hunchbacks.
Devolution made them monsters,
monsters that exist only on a web,
a web that doesn't really exist.
Virtual silk
they spin endlessly.
Every morning when i have breakfast
my sister's rabbit gets exited
and chews at the bars of its cage
because i'm the first person
of the always and not forever renewed day it sees.
I told her a hundred times i would set it free
but she says she'd kill me.
These people don't chew at the bars.
I did.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
INSOMNIA CHRONICLES
I.
I pushed the door of the kitchen
at 3 in the morning,
opened the fridge and thought,
America might not be the world
but it's everywhere.
On a yogurt cup,
in my fridge,
in my kitchen in France,
in the shape of Mickey Mouse
spreading his arms wide
over the yogurt cup and grinning.
Spreading his arm wide around the world.
The asshole.
Then i thought
What if Mickey Maus
told them to wear a burqa?
Yes, it's everywhere,
even on my lips
as i whisper words to my hand,
in the ink,
on this page,
under my skin.
II.
My mom cut my hair earlier tonight.
DIY.
They grow out too fast
or maybe it's time that flies too fast
and i don't see it go,
anyways my hair's looking good now.
Like Morrissey's or Toby Morse's.
I look back at the last time
my mom cut my hair,
things have changed a little bit,
they tend to do that,
things.
New tattoos added, no more girlfriend,
other pieces to the puzzle.
This box doesn't say how many pieces
and time doesn't say how many bitches.
It's looking good anyways (my hair)
in the mirror in front of the bed.
I have time to look at it because i can't sleep.
I've opened the shudders to the night,
fallen leaves are looking bright
under the street lamp
and my bike's still there.
That's a good thing.
I already know i'll be tired tomorrow
but gotta back to bed.
Fuck Tuesdays.
Ecrit d'une traite la semaine dernière
Dédicacé à Claire Palmer.
I.
I pushed the door of the kitchen
at 3 in the morning,
opened the fridge and thought,
America might not be the world
but it's everywhere.
On a yogurt cup,
in my fridge,
in my kitchen in France,
in the shape of Mickey Mouse
spreading his arms wide
over the yogurt cup and grinning.
Spreading his arm wide around the world.
The asshole.
Then i thought
What if Mickey Maus
told them to wear a burqa?
Yes, it's everywhere,
even on my lips
as i whisper words to my hand,
in the ink,
on this page,
under my skin.
II.
My mom cut my hair earlier tonight.
DIY.
They grow out too fast
or maybe it's time that flies too fast
and i don't see it go,
anyways my hair's looking good now.
Like Morrissey's or Toby Morse's.
I look back at the last time
my mom cut my hair,
things have changed a little bit,
they tend to do that,
things.
New tattoos added, no more girlfriend,
other pieces to the puzzle.
This box doesn't say how many pieces
and time doesn't say how many bitches.
It's looking good anyways (my hair)
in the mirror in front of the bed.
I have time to look at it because i can't sleep.
I've opened the shudders to the night,
fallen leaves are looking bright
under the street lamp
and my bike's still there.
That's a good thing.
I already know i'll be tired tomorrow
but gotta back to bed.
Fuck Tuesdays.
Ecrit d'une traite la semaine dernière
Dédicacé à Claire Palmer.
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