letters to the blindmen - 1994
inkless
so today i run out of ink i can't write what i've been thinking for days i've been holding in secret messages which i was about to release to the world or the drycleaner but now i can't communicate can't do nothing but drink choco milk from a plastic cup and sit by a silent toaster waiting for a neighbour to borrow a mug of coffee or bleach listen to two radio stations at once blending grating on the nerves i've no control watching powder snow fresh as doves turn to charcoal slush under cautious wheels of chevys and volvos and the late twentieth century lie waiting for the first note of my symphony to sound cats come and go i tell them the story of my life and they're happy take pills for the ache under the left eyebrow guard an empty mailbox count poppy seeds as the digital numbers mutate stare at inanimate objects refusing to budge wonder if a two-inch piece of peeling painted pipe could speak would it that's it that's it that's it i can't speak can't write can't communicate 'cause i've run out of ink can't speak
Posted on décembre 18, 2001 05:23 PM