there is something about
walls
and man's
inborn need
to be surrounded by them
It's those who
grew up
not surrounded by them
that know best
Last night
was
for him
the first night spent
alone between four walls
in a long, long time
and it wasn't even
a jail cell
It was a
rented room in the basement
of a building
Small, narrow, yet big
with emptiness
Just a bed, a wardrobe,
a desk and
a chair
and nothing else was needed
to feel fulfilled
and to dream of
something so warm and wholesome
as a woman
sitting on a pillow
on the floor,
holding a cotton swab in one
hand and inviting with
the other, pointing to
her lap
Heaven
Four walls, man. Only four
walls and a break
from the madness outside
and there you have it
Heaven
the old man wrote about miracles and wrote that it takes a miracle to know a miracle They found him dead over his writings on the day before Christmas and declared that he had been dead for weeks But of course that couldn't have been true His daughter was home but days ago and found him alive He smelled strongly of alcohol and sweat and rotting flesh, but he was moving just like any other living man Hunched over his small desk and typing on the keyboard dead men can't do that “Must've been a miracle then,” said the doctors. “According to the expertise, and the expertise is not wrong, this man has been dead for at least a week and a half.” But of course the doctors were men of science and men of science knew nothing about miracles The writer was alive. Even without a beating heart and…
he throws his weak body on the bed and breathes against the mattress and feels around with his hands in the vain hopes that maybe, maybe he'll be able to find another one of her lost hairs No luck Ah, isn't it amazing how much of a hopeless creature a human's mind is in this reality? The mind of man is the ultimate loser in all of existence It literally never wins against the heart Never! If the heart tells you to love the one being who wakes you up in the middle of the night with a vicious bite on the neck and demands that you listen to her story about how her fourth eye opened the last time you fucked and she saw God... The mind can do nothing about it. Oh, mind, you eternal loser Don't you ever get tired of losing? Even now as she is…
She ordered drinks, but would take them in plastic cups so she could enjoy them outside the bar on the steps “She thinks she's too good for us,” said the other girls. “Doesn't wanna drink with losers.” “She's just crazy,” said another girl. “Leave her be.” “That's her art and the thing she's best at,” said another girl. “This girl, oh, she can out-crazy all the crazies. I like her. Love her. It wasn't that long ago when she was approached outside in the darkness by some thug-looking dude who invited her into the back alley and she agreed. But, she removed her clothes right there on the steps. An' pulled a goddamned switchblade from between her legs. Told the guy that she doesn't take money. Tongue, ear, eye, or finger, she told him. Asked, which would you like me to carve out and tuck neatly in my lady pocket…
they scolded the old man and threatened to kick him out of the neighborhood “You're stinking up the place, old fool!” But he only rocked in his chair and poured another glass and raised it to them in salute and drank and smiled in spite of their frowns He lived in the city of 770 universities. The city of intellectuals, of the highest, most educated, most elevated minds the world had to offer To live here one must be either a grade A student or a published and acknowledged author or artist The authorities allowed this old man on account of being a poet but the citizens, with all their education and knowledge and diplomas would never understand that decision Professors of philosophy offered him as example to the students. “This over here,” they've said, “is the stereotype of the man who stops searching for truth on account of taking…
Daydreaming as a profession 