Truth of My Youth

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.