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
