My world is no more. Nevertheless, there are no changes at all. My
soul could not get any darker, my head barelly would get any more enlightned and
though not that fulfiled, I could not be any less delighted.
Poetry is dead. Poverty, on the other hand, is all over. Black dog
goes over and over. Like chasing the tail. Just waiting, God knows what for.
But there are no Gods, after all. No working class party saviour, no miraculous
way out. Nothing but the same “left right left right” tune, just like before
that FiatLux stuff.
I can’t seem to fit any clothes, any shoes, any space between
these commas. Like a former hero – world class fighter, I took too many hits on
the head. Like that old football player no one even recognize at the Market queue.
Like a former F5 pilot, in Coma due to a misplaced rug and a pathetic fall in a
Holiday trip. Trying to find a way out.
Or in. Any way.
My friends are nowhere near to be seen. My problems change names
and faces, but never leave me alone. Pink Floyd, The cure, the Pi number
(constant) keep the same. So does my sarcasm and sweet apathy. And the Alpha,
the omega symbolism, still feed me all the empathy that I need to keep it
coming. Guess only that and Brit rock’s for sure.
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