Yesterday, as I was picking up my laundry,
I was hit by a stray lighting!
And among the sound-effects of a sub-tropical storm
and the applause of the raindrops on my window,
I heard my bones crack me jokes
about my sinful essence,
bent under the weight of years and books,
page after age of pornographic knowledge
about nothing and noone.
No, it was the good-morning sight of that cockroach,
lost between the slices of my breakfast bread
that made me throw up my memories
one by one in my kitchen sink,
with my Chinese neighbours’
bewildered eyes for an audience,
and the postman’s empty sack
looking for an overdue letter of hope
addressed to me, in vain.
Actually, I remember now,
it must have been that revival tune,
an aboriginal busker was conjuring
in the central railway station subway,
and as the echoes in his fiery eyes touched me
I felt humble, insignificant, and wrong,
and all the perfume advert posters stared at me,
torn apart by random commuters in their frustration
and pissed on by glamorous pets.
No, I am sure it was that illegal joint,
dove-tailing across a Dutch oven
full of dysfunctional professors and their groupies,
talking to each other through text messages
and skyping their lust via cellophane-wrapped keyboards,
untouchable, unreal, uncomfortable,
the brewing cynicism of the cancer in me,
cancelling my sunny dreams
in midnight glasses of red wine.
It must have been the lighting after all...
Niko Tiliopoulos
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/connecting-the-dots/
