Sunday, March 17, 2013

Under surfaces

He takes me to exhibitions
Where they show peacocks made of bangles
And houses out of wooden ice cream sticks
Some times a clock framed into mirror mosaic

He makes them clap, without battery
But that can be changed
Like a mood into happiness,
Some thing hidden under surfaces

While time doesn’t halt
I think of a TV show that I didn’t like
Something was wrong with it

A well in a fish bowl,
A robot in a vase, little plastic beads
I look right through them

On the other side a crematorium,
Ashes carried by a breeze
The chimney behind the fruit seller’s place
Onto my lips and his graying hair,
Tiny little flakes, nobody spots them
But I taste decay

He makes me run as if I didn’t exist
The walk was a waste of time, he says
While I had kept it sacred
Ruins of a castle, sheltering 
Birds in a park, I should burn it down
What is a life worth without the memory of it

The car crosses a river without water
Everybody seems fine with it
Squeezing a smile out of grapes
A little drop might fill a lake
I could swim to the other side
A golden bank where I could hide
While he sells the wrong currency

White paper flakes, I owe him
A hundred thousand pieces
Because I feel 
Used and tired of expressing it

I remember one child
Had made a black TV
He said he liked it