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April 4, 2018

Easter weekends

Tamely passed –

And tame pasts.

Lost lines, lost lines,

Important lines,

Lines of significance.


I call,

I belittle,

I hope for no carpeting,

My hopes, my desires, are petty,

They are of significance to me,

Like my lines.


You told a lie,

I don’t mind,

Two lies parallel,

Running parallel,

Now I’ll be doomed,

I’ll be sent to nowhere towns,

Nothing towns,

To ply a trade,

Not my own.


I hear calls on other lines,

It’s strange,

Everything is near,

Carpeted stairwell,

Stressed patients phoning,

The receptionist, not a doctor,

I think she has more wisdom,

She learnt it on the streets.


I passed my evenings in Naples wisely,

Searching out whores, sometimes drugs,

I had no shower,

This was a shame,

I found no whores, no drugs,

This was a shame,

I quite like the face of the whore,

The mannerisms of the dealer.


I prefer holed stockings,

These are whore-like

And desirable.

What’s your surname?

You’re correct. I know not your name,

That which was given.


All names to me seem given,

We inherit. We are given,

We do what with these names?

We throw them out

With the bathwater, as it were.


A Catholic school, near my home,

The line forgot,

And now, we do what?

She is a teacher there,

As of recently, very.

She plies her trade, chosen,

She’ll forget her calling, shortly.


Get up. Close the window.

We busy ourselves.

Black pen or blue,

The blue hurts the eyes,

It is a harsh blue.


I’ll mow the carpeting,

I’ll tear it to shreds,

Wooden floors, always,

Thick carpet, I climb and climb.


Children preparing,

Preparing to exit,

First thing’s first,

First thing in the morning.


They’ve forgotten me there,

That’s fine: I forget them

With ease. Easily forgot,

Death at home, in foreign land,

My blood bleeds, then clots.

Familial bloodlines lost.


A young lady, not quite professional,

I’ve got my date book. Saturday,

Friday, not. I forgot.

She takes out glasses. She reads,

I regard her. She apologises.

Charming young lady.


This café’s dead to me,

After all these years,

I remember grand old days,

She was special to me, to all,

She’s gone, her fate unknown.


Now, I write upstanding,

I watch the deadened coffee steam,

Pharmacy across the way,

They know my maladies,

Do they consider me illegitimate?

They know of my worries.


No. I no longer frequent that café,

Nor my Elsa,

That was leading nowhere.

It was clear.

At home, I write with ease,

So it seems.

Perhaps Elsa longs for me,

I was a protective figure:

I was poor in this role.


I walk with medication in my hands,

All who see me know my state.

He wishes that I would frequent his café.

He is doctor,

I have drugs, many, thanks to him,

They make me sleep, etc.

In no matter what state, I sleep.


One day, I’ll see them,

They of café abandoned.

We’ll pretend not to see,

I will smile inwardly.


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