Poem or whatever.

 

 

New page. Blank page.

Write again.

The sun is shining.

To banal.

The jukebox is out of order.

To obvious.

To sit down with a cup of tea.

It doesn’t taste good.

Slightly orange.

It’s already cold.

It has been hours now.

No wonder, It’s cold.

Bitter sweet.

What do you want to read?

Sex, drugs and rock and roll.

Philosophy of mind.

Fantasy and action, fiction.

Love.

No.

True pain of life.

No.

True joy of life.

No.

Not of life at all?

Death.

Sorrow.

Fast cars.

Private swimming pool.

Cottage in the forest.

Mountain climbing.

Tightrope walking.

 

This poem ore whatever it is has to start all over again.

This time shorter.

 

New blank page again.

The sun.

Something broken.

Cold orange tea.

 

Sex and philosophy of fiction.

 

Love.

Pain.

Joy.

Death.

 

Luxury.

Tightrope walking.

 

There you go. Much more better.

And then a reference to Magritte.

 

Dog at the graveyard.

 

 

Now, and again.

Now, and again.

Will you pass,

through this door?

Will you pass?

Walk through

Not to fast.

Not to slow.

The gravel,

makes sounds.

Your footsteps,

on the path.

 

“See, it is a normal day.

A couple and a dog. Taking pictures in front of a grave.

Pictures of their dog in front of a grave.

Is it a gateway, the graveyard?”