yet another rabbit-story
temporarily obscuring the view to the street below.
Even from here, the clouds look dark
and foreboding.
The cigarette hangs between my fingers,
making all sorts of promises, which I know
it can't keep.
Apparently, I've already sunken this deep.
Why the blazes am I even awake?
"Fuck it, I'll burn you anyways, like some sick parody
of a 15th century bitch on a stake",
I think – momentarily wondering whether or not
I've spoken the thought out loud.
Not that it matters.
Whoever might hear me here,
can be counted on
not to give a fuck
what other people think
– or drink
With the possible exception of the rabbits in the sink
The walls are worn and grimy, like my mind,
Stained like my fingers with nicotine
from way too many cigarettes. Ragged curtains do their best
to obscure the fact
that the world outside
is just as fundamentally fucked
as the one in here.
And the rabbits in the sink are still counting,
they've been there
for three stinkin months now,
and the landlord won't do a fuck about em.
Says rabbit-problems
are part of the contract.
"forty-one, forty-two, forty..." oh, shut the fuck up.
A knock on the wall from my neighbor
hints that the latter remark
escaped my internal monologue.
Who gives a fuck anyways?
It doesn't matter what you think.
Or maybe it does.
It's hard to tell these days.
Silence creeps under the door
like some poltergeist
out of a poor nineteen sixty-seven horror movie,
with rasping breath and eyes
like a freak train
hell-bent on hammering into reality like an intercontinental ballistic missile
loaded with bullshit.
There's nowhere left to run now,
no reason left to care
I'm vaguely aware
of the silence pervading my surroundings,
punctuated by nothing
but my incessant tapping on the keyboard.
Maybe the rabbits in the sink
Have simply returned to settle the score
Or maybe they just don't give a fuck anymore.
Why would they?
Any such thing as a reason
or purpose
pertaining to this sickly perverted existence
Is but a vain hope,
a pointless delusion
nourished by fear of the very simple fact:
There is no point
There is nothing left to seek
The last dream has been broken, the last wish spoken, left unfulfilled
like the half-empty glass of whiskey
standing on the worn oak desk of the bar in front of me.
The barman a white, furry motherfucker with long, pointy ears,
Suddenly leans over the bar, whispering for my ears alone:
"forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, sir."
Fuck it,
there's nothing left to dream anymore.
A simple fact, surmised as I drift into a haze
The rabbit on the other side of the bar fixes me with an x-ray gaze
Or maybe he doesn't, he certainly won't help me out of this maze
Or maybe he will
It's hard to tell these days
Never before has Mankind been this dependent
on the conveniences made available
by what we define as "civilization"
A civilization, whose cornerstone seems to be a race
to attain the ability to destroy
the lives of people around us, the death count having risen
from thousands to billions,
over the course of a single millennium.
In half a century, Mankind has attained the collective ability
to wipe out all life on the planet.
Such noble pursuits and applications
of human intellect.
Half a millennium of war supports the fact
that preaching against this incessant violence
is pointless.
Maybe that's what the rabbits in the sink are persistently attempting to hammer
into our consciousness.
Or maybe it isn't.
The television flashes glimpses of senseless brutality,
and it's not even monochrome anymore.
This time the slaughter is brought to us live,
transmitted across the globe in violent, surreal shades
of Kalashnikov's and hand grenades
Suddenly shaken from my reverie,
I realize the rabbit on the other side of the bar is staring at me
"fourty-two." He states, in a stern voice.
"I agree", I says, as his face gradually emerges from the haze
Or maybe I don't.
It's hard to tell these days.
Poetry by Lalando
Read 705 times
Written on 2010-12-19 at 11:37
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Print text
Ballistic rabbits in the sink
Water cascades down the grimy windows,temporarily obscuring the view to the street below.
Even from here, the clouds look dark
and foreboding.
The cigarette hangs between my fingers,
making all sorts of promises, which I know
it can't keep.
Apparently, I've already sunken this deep.
Why the blazes am I even awake?
"Fuck it, I'll burn you anyways, like some sick parody
of a 15th century bitch on a stake",
I think – momentarily wondering whether or not
I've spoken the thought out loud.
Not that it matters.
Whoever might hear me here,
can be counted on
not to give a fuck
what other people think
– or drink
With the possible exception of the rabbits in the sink
The walls are worn and grimy, like my mind,
Stained like my fingers with nicotine
from way too many cigarettes. Ragged curtains do their best
to obscure the fact
that the world outside
is just as fundamentally fucked
as the one in here.
And the rabbits in the sink are still counting,
they've been there
for three stinkin months now,
and the landlord won't do a fuck about em.
Says rabbit-problems
are part of the contract.
"forty-one, forty-two, forty..." oh, shut the fuck up.
A knock on the wall from my neighbor
hints that the latter remark
escaped my internal monologue.
Who gives a fuck anyways?
It doesn't matter what you think.
Or maybe it does.
It's hard to tell these days.
Silence creeps under the door
like some poltergeist
out of a poor nineteen sixty-seven horror movie,
with rasping breath and eyes
like a freak train
hell-bent on hammering into reality like an intercontinental ballistic missile
loaded with bullshit.
There's nowhere left to run now,
no reason left to care
I'm vaguely aware
of the silence pervading my surroundings,
punctuated by nothing
but my incessant tapping on the keyboard.
Maybe the rabbits in the sink
Have simply returned to settle the score
Or maybe they just don't give a fuck anymore.
Why would they?
Any such thing as a reason
or purpose
pertaining to this sickly perverted existence
Is but a vain hope,
a pointless delusion
nourished by fear of the very simple fact:
There is no point
There is nothing left to seek
The last dream has been broken, the last wish spoken, left unfulfilled
like the half-empty glass of whiskey
standing on the worn oak desk of the bar in front of me.
The barman a white, furry motherfucker with long, pointy ears,
Suddenly leans over the bar, whispering for my ears alone:
"forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, sir."
Fuck it,
there's nothing left to dream anymore.
A simple fact, surmised as I drift into a haze
The rabbit on the other side of the bar fixes me with an x-ray gaze
Or maybe he doesn't, he certainly won't help me out of this maze
Or maybe he will
It's hard to tell these days
Never before has Mankind been this dependent
on the conveniences made available
by what we define as "civilization"
A civilization, whose cornerstone seems to be a race
to attain the ability to destroy
the lives of people around us, the death count having risen
from thousands to billions,
over the course of a single millennium.
In half a century, Mankind has attained the collective ability
to wipe out all life on the planet.
Such noble pursuits and applications
of human intellect.
Half a millennium of war supports the fact
that preaching against this incessant violence
is pointless.
Maybe that's what the rabbits in the sink are persistently attempting to hammer
into our consciousness.
Or maybe it isn't.
The television flashes glimpses of senseless brutality,
and it's not even monochrome anymore.
This time the slaughter is brought to us live,
transmitted across the globe in violent, surreal shades
of Kalashnikov's and hand grenades
Suddenly shaken from my reverie,
I realize the rabbit on the other side of the bar is staring at me
"fourty-two." He states, in a stern voice.
"I agree", I says, as his face gradually emerges from the haze
Or maybe I don't.
It's hard to tell these days.
Poetry by Lalando
Read 705 times
Written on 2010-12-19 at 11:37
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
shells |
