I watch my hands

moving about,

spreading like ceilings up front,

like roofs below my face;

a mirrored face that makes me shy;

a life that propels the moment

I measure time in bob dylans,

from Don't Look Back

to The Shadow Kingdom

I have ideas working their way

I see dead Runell smoking & smiling,

installing the first colour Mac for me

I see dead Dellaree, full of intelligence,

before turning alcoholic

I see practically dead Sune,

degrading himself into intense cowardice

Those still alive

much too bent on existing,

dummer than most,

not realising

that they're already dead,

those obstinate birdbrains,

not good enough

even for a compost

When I look in the mirror

at 4 AM,

having to piss,

I don't feel 100% inhabited

I'm a bit shy of myself,

can't really look myself in the eye

to acknowledge ”my self”,

realising

that I'm much deader

than ever alive,

because as soon as I was conceived

by two horny adults

that I didn't chose, dead since long,

I was on my way, fast,

to death and incineration

and a few scattered short-term leftovers,

my children no more, or less,

significant,

than a couple of mindless fish

with their mouths stupidly open

up the stream:

friends barely a slight friction,

having me involve in skincare

and the good old ”not-to-be”

I'm alive like a rock,

dead like a neighbour;

not bothered one bit;

just fucking anybody up

with free thoughts

and harsh days