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
