Friday, 29 July 2011

the booth

As expected: 00h00


I denied you a “turn around” with a telecom nickel in the slot
destroying us through the greasy worn receiver ,
etching feelings that carved through the  static speaker 
I had a slashing thirty minutes with you and a queuing,
old bitch complaining about the cold and the verbal abuse


An inflammation of feeling stains the road, the fields and the river

“How could you “
“How could you “

Gruesome sad blues turns into a stretching, elastic feeling
of black, every fucking city colour drowning morbidly into its swell 
dark, stumbling, loitering for another empty booth 


Detonating fear through hoarse ambulances, police and kids
looking through dirty curtains crying
“where are you now “
“Where are you now “


The nickel falls, hits the stainless steel belly flat
it makes a bad sound that says “Clank”

The phone never rings 
it’s disconnected, it peeps...peeps

She is with him

(He is fucking her)     

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