Drift

Death also walks alone
plays solitary football with brickbat
hides a lonesome tear drop yet in his mind
drifts the language hold yourself in this upsurge
be a little composed you will feel better
saying that I become restless
watching the drift to drift away
leaves behind the touch of solace pride attachment
I dislike you treating me as a beloved
As if you will be relieved if you can set yourself free
So this is the pleasure of attachment
The touches still remain so stupid unreasonable

Old Rust

When my head also reels I realize I have lived too long. It is necessary to die now – pat comes the inference of my friend, slanting his head on one side, in the same way he use to say – come lets have some local hooch. In his face looms the darkness of the new butterfly lights of the coffee house maybe walking inside a dream I will wake up to find myself lying under a mosquito net in that triangular room with one hand raised. Caressing the roof of the mosquito net with my right hand. The mosquito net also has the smell of my mother. Like old rust. Very dear. Which feels up your senses. Not like the breath smelling of cigarettes now burning like gunpowder. Very soft and easy. But I know that triangular room does not exist anymore. Kept folded in a dream box in a memory. When I will return to that memory I will ask the forest that day – did he not catch the same smell. Oh my Buddha lying on its side. The city won’t see the birth of a forest anymore.