about certain warm evenings
when even the clanging of the keys could be poetry -but of course,
only before I harbour any thoughts of writing it down.
* * * * *
the vulgar sunlight of a tropical noon
the shadowless figures, waiting to cross the road
the scene of numerous passing suns reflected on the piercing windscreens is our horizon,
the clear evil of the bluest sky framed by the immobile vertical panes,
I know the height of the ceiling now.
Our habit of always associating a dog's walk with the dried black poo on the pavement...
that might be a good picture when all paintings are now shit
when we have decided on painting shit ...
for drunk viewers who need a lifthome.
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