Only a wee wee bit, you loathe life –
\nIt\u2019s me, what else –
\nSee those slender girls sitting on the bridge,
\nToo close to where they ban light:
\nThe house of power, curtains drawn forever and a day –
\nOh, do you chance to love
\nDays that haunt worse than wildflowers
\nAnd stick worse than a mother\u2019s love –
\nYou don\u2019t? Shut your sky then,
\nThey’re shouting for your skin
\nThose renegades, blue and red
\nWhen light lets loose trees go wild
\nAnd you feel the absence
\nBetween heaven and tattered nights –
\nAnyway.
\nNo leaf falls, no tree strikes down,
\nNo muddy green water in the field:
\nAngels own it, they blind
\nThe mercy of sneaky beasts
\nIf you say yes to the unearthed light:
\nIt limps, it falls, it stops –
\nDarn you and your bloody wait, soul,
\nBooks, homecoming just sneak out –
\nAs wind drains thoughts,<\/p>\n
Maybe eyes.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
That summer, when a scorching sun<\/p>\n
Tried to play the whistleblower but failed,<\/p>\n
Demise was a most welcome guest:<\/p>\n
Elderly mothers and young lovers<\/p>\n
Crossed the border first,<\/p>\n
Those left behind spewed the usual ol\u2019 stuff:<\/p>\n
Do vows and prayers work? Shall we bin them,<\/p>\n
And empty the dustbin?<\/p>\n
Were our words so alike to a faint moan<\/p>\n
When a blizzard smites all noises around?<\/p>\n
Or were they alike to the castaway\u2019s weary nod<\/p>\n
To the frantic surges?<\/p>\n
Yes, they couldn\u2019t make their mind up,<\/p>\n
But don\u2019t big yourself up, demise, for winning the first hand –<\/p>\n
This I can\u2019t deny, yet who are you<\/p>\n
But a wandering gambler, one day here, one day there,<\/p>\n
All your hours spent stalking this or that prey,<\/p>\n
All your nights in some shabby hotel wasting time<\/p>\n
With those pals of yours,<\/p>\n
Earthquakes, diseases and air crashes,<\/p>\n
Once in a blue moon a wrinkled old slut<\/p>\n
To quench your thirst –<\/p>\n
Ever thought of your life, demise?<\/p>\n
You hustler, ever thought you win only through tricks?<\/p>\n
Now beware, you\u2019re selling them bit short, aren\u2019t you?<\/p>\n
Words are not gambling tricksters,<\/p>\n
They don\u2019t cheat and run,<\/p>\n
But strike, stay and dare the events –<\/p>\n
Only bones and corpses you leave behind,<\/p>\n
A rich booty indeed, but they leave behind<\/p>\n
The green translucent sap that runs<\/p>\n
Through skies, trees, poems and butterflies –<\/p>\n
Ever tried to stop them, you dorky loser?<\/p>\n
See, the answer is no –<\/p>\n
\u2018Cause sap runs unrelenting, \u2018cause words got an abode –<\/p>\n
Where they inflexibly stay.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
What an easy cop out,
\n\u2018I\u2019m sorry\u2019 they say, then wish you good luck,
\nWhy bother with ifs and a blue soul –
\nPoint is you need a sharp sight,
\nMaybe a blue screen for the blue of abysms –
\nFruits lie, beware, winter isn\u2019t green,
\nSo it won\u2019t be your amnion –
\nThe season? Neurasthenia of sky at best,
\nNo use dreaming you\u2019re a distance,
\nWeaving stories if bodies or nasty whiffs
\nRamble through you, worse yet
\nThe moon\u2019s giving words fragments of life,
\nThe red cup, the sky\u00a0you casually drop, they both chipped now –
\nYes, it\u2019s called high treason if you suspect
\nLight flooding the outskirt of days,
\nWhile houses and limbs starve you out –
\nBut don\u2019t fret, one day hunger will stalk herself
\nThrough autumn, distance, old light –
\nSo what? The food\u2019s getting scarcer downtown,
\nThe soul starving while the wind
\nKeeps her clear of scents and heretical minds –
\nYet you indulge in cool dark walls,
\nIn windows along the hallway –
\nRight where you meet
\nSeeds that spite and backfire.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Only a wee wee bit, you loathe life – It\u2019s me, what else – See those slender girls sitting on the bridge, Too close to where they ban light:<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1340,77],"tags":[1342,1123,1349],"class_list":["post-12314","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-egophobia-55","category-english","tag-egophobia-55","tag-english","tag-gabriella-garofalo"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6DakB-3cC","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12314","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=12314"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12314\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12315,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12314\/revisions\/12315"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=12314"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=12314"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=12314"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}