People are pairs,
Triplets, Circles on the grass; People are their kids and their dogs, Taking in the summer scent. A sultry breeze snugs itself onto Trinity Bellwoods park: the fit, cool, fresh lived humans gather here. They are not shy to brag about how greatly they can befriend. Well, what do I have to brag about? Besides this wrecked wood bench only a soft sense of beauty and sorrow keeps me company. This afternoon, that's the holly trinity of mine: Solitude, contemplation & heartache: they glide, white; tenderize the silver coin in the sky. Funny how one rows down meanders as if expecting a treasure at every curve. But, I'm telling you man, I don't think there's a goddamn reward anywhere, specially when the pellicle of warmth has abandoned your dermis. So, Play volleyball; Go jogging; Make new friends; Fuck and be fucked as much you're able to reach orgasm on a lifetime. Refuse to take that gloomy path, where one can't be sure weather he was left behind or he left them behind-- probably a combination of both. No matter how intensely I wonder about - the hip and fit are much entertained as they seek balance on a rubber cord extended between two trees. I'll leave them be, unsuppressed; free from my petty scrutiny. I wonder why the suicide rate rises during winter rather than summer... Let's retreat to some dusky bar, dear me.
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Old woman with dog;
Boy with soccer ball; Young lady with tattoos and cigarettes, fire & smoke: This summer afternoon is only theirs for they are the absolute measure of it all. On each building a window for each room and inside there’s the bed of the next winner of the Nobel prize The next president; The next war hero; The next messiah. The next I AM. The self-important I the I who writes: if not for those Is there'd be another I; the I would have traced a whole different race The I wouldn’t be mourning Nor drunk nor melancholic. 'Cause the I has left the bar. The I has left the summer The same way the I buried winter nights. The I walked home and, now, as the I hides, the I considers writing the perfect love rhymes for the love the I has been denied as if with the right placed words the I could conquer the affection of any given I the I ever longed to be the I's I. The seat of the soul
keeps missing legs: just one left now. will it tip over, hit the ground? If it does so will all around. The seat of soul is broken; it breaks without making sound. I walk around
with my guard down - I don't see why I should keep it up: those who punch in the mouth end up with shattered knuckles; I thank those; I leave bloody kisses on their cheeks. It's up to them to wipe it out or let it c lo t .. B
O The O O unloved O O crazy: O O O she/he isO O poorO O andO O crazy;O O O he/she is O O poorO O and O O unloved;O O O O unlovedO O andO O poor;O O O she/he is O O crazy O O poor! O O O O O O O O O O He O O is O O she O O is O O yes, O O they are, O O crazy O O unloved. O ! |
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