There is nothing to do at this moment,
Apart from the self criticizing reminiscences of the past,
And thinking of could –have-beens and could-bes,
And reliving that foul rum-breath of a wasted and turbulent night,
And getting irate at the unnecessary early rising of the sun,
And then getting seeped into all the gore and din of dumb action movies.
There is nothing much to do at this moment,
Than scribbling down the thousand abuses that i would want to hurl at you,
Than holding back my hair with both my hands in uncomfortable pleasure,
And saving my eyes from the unwanted pricks of tangible threads,
And messing with the cell phone and the wired phone and unwired pages,
And listening to the buzz of an ups with a green, stinging, sadistic light.
There is actually nothing much to do at this moment,
Than bring back a piece of dark see from far away shore,
And day dream of amphibious trees of an inundated span,
And read the bridges... one more time and listen to jealous girl once again,
And think of making love to a virus infected injured and injurious body.
And read that same “ leo” poster on the wall a thousand time.
There is nothing at all to do at this moment,
Than think of those thoughts that i think of everyday,
Of blues. Of greys. Of lilacs and old greens.
Of musk. Of rum. Of tobacco and skin.
And think of things that incapacitate my strength every time,
And see the rise of the green from the dead and the dying red.
