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Just me.

Just me.

Friday, 4 January 2013

My Wings

                            
With the bright green hedge clippers
you lubricated for me
five days ago, 
I cut off my wings 
and it didn't hurt


They damaged my spine
when I kept bending 
under their weight
and
it was too hard 
for my colleagues 
to pass me
in the narrow corridor


The doctor told me 
the wounds would heal
before spring
and
the raw scars 
(treated with the latest argan oil ointment
that smells so divine)
would pale 
to embellish 
my olive skin
and to complement it 


In an arctic airtight pocket 
of my favourite jeans
I keep the seven stem cells
that I extracted 
with my slightly webbed fingers
as an embryo
Just in case I need my wings back
in a new life


Check this song out


On the fourth of January
the sky is grey
but it can't be bothered to cry

I trip over your pride
and 
sink into 
the Kingdom of Oblivion 
failing to reach the bottom
and greet my forgotten friends

Poor memory of my impeccable manners
embraces me fondly
so I can swear
not so solemnly
but expressively and sincerely

Three hours later
unbearable lightness of being
stares at me 
insolently
from an empty bookshelf
and
fades away
to die peacefully 
with a bushy spider
in my arms


Listen


Mother,
He didn't want to see your pain
when 
             you
                         were 
                                       dying
and
danced on
ever so smoothly

I could smell his drunken breath
and feel the tiniest droplets
Of his salty sweat
falling on my 
T                    E                   B                   I                 G 
           R                   M                  L                  N                     knees

His laughter vibrantly echoes 
in my ears
to tell his story of
Betrayal
every evening


Mother,
Where was I?


Listen