mort mot juste

novembro 26, 2006

dad was a drunkard, i am the messiah

the old man
preserved forever with a
black head of thick
vigor (that grins
still, after the villagers
have buried their dead)
lost sight of you
in another gulp of that distilled
liquor of his.

distinct gentlemen in fautless
cardboard posture
and well ironed linen
clap in metric at the end of your
displays. these are their remaining
verse lines.

you know when to tell your jokes.
your denture the whitest of all,
animal-sharp
your anecdotes come out
blatant
a quartet of loud trombones.
in the taphouse,
at the meetings
you pole the stage
spotlit
by the eager eyes of the idiots.

late night you roll over
for the cars to go
by, life has not payed you back.
and you have done so much.

you fail to recognize the morning.
the working girls service you
in exchange for the content of your
soaking pockets.

the word on your closest friends' lips
passing around like a pipe infected with
spit, a one time bride-they only speak
in cheap proverbs after the fifth glass-
that is our noble joe
like father, like son.

maria 2:29 PM 5 vociferando estavam



ao rés da fala