I stand by my window, trembling in my clothes,
in the streets, a grinning drunkard babbles, and, well,
I go along.
I know the song he’s singing,
yes, I know it from my childhood.

The night is long, but it’s never long enough.
There is no helping what’s inside.

In this twenty-year-long slope–
Twenty years is a long time, twenty years or so –
Hope hasn’t been but a joke told out of time,
marching with graceless rythm, to a sour pun.
All my dreams have sunk shaking their arms.
now I see them raise mild with their backs to the sun.

The kitchen reeks of chicken stock,
dinner’s been served, the day’s been long.
I close the door and i sit to ball,
and I ball, and I ball like a child.
There is no helping what’s inside.
I have told myself, so many times,
in words like ornaments,
laid with a frightful hand,
so long, so long, the night.

The night is long, but it’s never long enough.
I bath, and I change, and by your side,
I lay and I pull the chord of the lamp.
And when my eyes are accustomed
to the streetlight-soften dark,

I stare at the bony crest in your back.
I perish under the weight of some nonsense-
I’ve given up on sleep after a while.

You know how it’s always been,
you, who have endured me,
as to excuse yourself out of life.

So long, so long the night.
Faithful to my customs-
at this point all I have left
is my lengthy repertoire of
personal clichés.
I’m staring at the linens,
doing, in the backyard, their evening watch.
The night is long, but it’s never long enough.

Water glass and rosy eyes.
There is no helping, no.

There is no helping what’s inside.

Windows showcase me graying doubles.
Tomorrow’ll come, to gawk and stumble.

Originally featured in The God of Noise N°2

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