Perceptual flatulence.
And here in this windless hole, I sit and wonder where I had left that which mattered most to me under the starlit fields of Montreal. I crave it and yet wish to God that I had never been the man who held you close to me. Everything I had in my arms in the parking lot outside of that hotel dash turned dash residence. A messy room and a crowded cafeteria. A hotel dash turned dash residence dash turning dash memory. And here in this wonderless shithole, in this airtight cabin of past fantasy's design, the rent keeps piling up and oh the dishes are due. Half-finished paperback classics flapjacked on top of each other in this white shirt no sweat world with the sleeves rolled up. This pill form city with all the charm and magic of an after dinner mint. Take a walk with me, let me tell you about this dream I had.It had wine
and white sheets and tables.
Paintings that I knew but
did not recognise,
gasping under the
grip of yellowing
wallpaper with pink flowers.
It was hell,
hell I tell you.
waking up with fever thinking I was portuguese and that there were three of me
Remembering when you sat me down,
and told me who I was in all of
ten minutes- underline this underline that.
Black and red LEDs in full contrast of the room turning real again.
All I remember is you.
Poetry by Jack R. Schade
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Written on 2010-09-09 at 08:28
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