Monday, 11 July 2011

The creeping time

gets into one’s skin,
changes it inexorably,
leaving behind
an alien thing.

All my life,
all my pain,
all the punches taken,
all the lumps swallowed,
it builds up
like a mountain of rice
(but I gave
as good as I got).

Alone. Is it so bad
to be
One wants for nothing
on one’s own –
a man cannot
know himself
until he’s alone.

Why do we need people?
Those voices,
their touch –
And why do I
before them?

The days are growing dark.
I don’t know whether I
seek the light
I’ve never been in love,
never made love,
never fought with my fists.

Piss, piss it all away –
all the time, every day.
Limp, like the softness
inside a limpit,
like the hardness
of a confused and fleshless life.

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