Glory Night

at times it gets so fucking tiring

that it sort of gets to you

and then you stay up all night

painting chimneys with boobs

and painting people

 who are scared of life,

loneliness, misery and starvation

people thinking of Beckett

and of their mothers,

people hating the rain and loving the share-market

people hating the share-market and loving the rain

people being eaten up by paper tigers

people drowning in gutters and obligations

people howling at the moon:

you paint them all

only to find that

they all  

look the same:

like failed prophets

and broken machines;

but the chimneys with boobs

look different

each time you paint them.

and that gets to you for good.

child, don't be afraid

i'm just a timid joker counting stars

you see these flowers?

these are for the dead gods

give these to them if you ever

meet them

damn! we were supposed to set the nights on fire,

beat the shit out of the wolves that scare us,

and hoot for the fairies as they rave across the galaxies

what the fuck has happened to us?

The nights are aiming at our guts

the wolves are having a good laugh

even the fairies are bored.

this muck, i tell you:

either it gets to you

or else you get to it.

there's nothing you can do about this

flush the roaches down

drown the sharks in whiskey

and go to sleep.

and sleep till you wake up, deadbeat,

temples throbbing, skies awash

bridges -

broken.

there's no way out.

and then there are those times

when you go out to the balcony

smoke at the night

and walk right back

into your room

which is more naked than

you are now,

only that

you refuse to see it that way.

trust me when i say this

the night gives a shit

and you don't

though you pretend indifference.

like all pretentious roses and pretentious pricks

your indifference won’t change the world
but that of the world is bound to change you

soon enough.

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