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A wreckage
of fished minddrops
amongst the nerves
of the looming deadline.
A vast, undiluted Sunday,
a Sunday that is a Sunday,
a Sunday for you,
everyone else having their own Sundays,
using them,
not using them,
misusing them-even-

And still

You must

onward your fixation
of cheerfully
throwing away your money
(your lunches, to be preciser)

just for two hours

we will say farewell
to an entire week

of eating soothingly
calming our underribbed beasts.

But no,

you will have,
because you always must,
your Sunday high.

No matter if you must shoot down
everybody else´s
(Another time
to pretend
you forgot
the visits-so hollow,so plain-)

This is not time either:
No time to learn your hands are cracking
oxid inside your never ending treks
your fists never strengthtened
by the loads of whims
the loaded words she threatens to pounce

A tragedy:
You will never learn the name of that girl,
that woman
that made your skull trill
as she danced her voice
on the radio on the afternoon
and you fingers wished-wished oh so much-
to orchestrate the perfect romance
of her high notes
and the audience that does not exist

You ought to be invincible
as all the comfortable elders say
-you could presume
as the afternoon  roughens up your face-
you could be succesfully married
to a schedule, the eternal dust and grime of a household,
the recycling of marks on your fingers
-look ma, only one hand for all the store!-

No time,
the sky is slowly fading
the cold is hopping up your shoulders
like a dreaded unworking shower
-gas is all dead, music is all dead
memory is dead, your peace is dead

your fingers are so
painfully so alive
the bombzone
once known as the kitchen
still awaits you
-Hmph, I wanted my potatoes baked
she huffs as she shushes you away
on your cheerful way to the market-
as she laments
like a linescratched record
oh her wrist oh her all
oh her nothing

No time
your unage
annoyingly pounding from your
will have to be ignored
time to kill your nose
via clankings and rubbing in the kitchen´s soaps
a total unstructure
as she wil go and imbibe herself
of Dr. Oz´s latest genialties on cable.

Silly joints
(you wish you felt
as boomingly alive
as those billboards full of smiling
silly hands
silly cuts
silly all
damn it all.
Why yes,
he is something
cropped out of a cartoon
and indeed,
she is something that comes
with her own blazing trumpet theme,
it is true,
you know,
they are invincible
invulnerable eternal
for you to use
as you
-oooh those bones!-
for the billionth time in that hour
why these youngsters
wimping about
a back
and a strain
after carrying
the world the space and the all
why, back in sixty-four
you toughened out
and hurled stones at the cops
smoke weed and nymph´s piss
had an orgy with lennon and napoleon
-oh, kids these days-
one tells them to become a stereotypical slave
-like those you see in those acclaimed movies-
and, like that,
the daisies
go cripple and limp
these heartless thoughtless youths
oh what happened
to those perfectly bodied
-all muscles, all legs and biceps and chest-
-all good curves, all slenderness and poise and gait-
you saw around your good old ages, hum!
curse that Web of theirs- nothing good
comes out of that
(even if you can´t fucking learn how to
punch in a button in a microwave)
all those drugs, humh,
damn kids all flabby
can´t do anything
the mighty senior fancying itself a scriptwriter,
so desires for the daily quota of whim.
She fears
looking at the mirror
finding a void between her ears while doing so

so she goes every day, every hour
to the latest movie
the latest guru
the latest trend

As the white lady creeps up behind me
while I try to make
something not-public-shame-causing
out of my yeared clothes
the white lady surges
scaling my fingers
breath miniscule of the nation´s rivers
words coming out of the faucet

we start the campaign to kill
the fraud that was
the latest shirtless tenpacked
deodorant publicity

she bites my fingers
my fingernails
she evicts
every bacteria to ever live
under my eternal stress

entagles herself
on my knuckles
and the heaving fingers
-scrub, scrub,
stretch, pull-

behold, oh mister poet,
the romance of
the oldest washing idea
and the aging hands-
no time for fleshed flowers
angels roadkilled
by highstrung pilots
and every millenialborn
who fancies himself
living in an eurypides-

hide not your nose
as the white lady latches
to the watch and the fading timehands
let your nose
see there is substance
as the noosed hands
wrestle against the tedium
of making a residence
something approved
by the world´s gossiping.

She will sometime return
after stoning herself
on the rabid dogs frothing and arfing
on their chalices and tabernaculums

the hair of the white lady,
like an clingy atmosphere
will frame still my eldering hands
as the empty bag who fancies herself
the matron o´ the house
has not married her hands
to the board of bubble and water and blushing hands
to the paling clothes pleading to survive the moment
all stringed flesh complete hopefully.



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Add a Comment:
dimajaber Featured By Owner 15 hours ago  Professional General Artist
thank you for the fave :heart:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 15 hours ago
No problem! :D
tommyboywood Featured By Owner 20 hours ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks Diego
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 20 hours ago
No problem Tom!
Serendiipitii Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the favorite <3
Also, don't ever take your 'Spanishes internally' journal off because I laugh every single time I see it.
Every. Single. Time.
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 2 days ago
No problem!

Apparently my nonexistant humour isn´t as nonexistant as I thought :iconsuccessplz:
Glad to make you laugh!
Serendiipitii Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
It is there my friend - use it! :la:
safika987 Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you very, very much for the favourite kindly given to me.
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 2 days ago
No problem, it was a pleasure!
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