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Your fingernails have roofed
every single stinginess
she pours into the same old lunch,
same old story about
eating fairy farts being good
for those blasted templelines
ageing your mugshot.
They are now drenched
 being drenched
in her wrists frailty
her fingerjoints´ wimpiness
and her bicepchoking
your guilt and morality
into making a cousteau
of your hands.
Arise them later
as the eldritch scents of the sink
are the trendiest jewelry
for your overbones

she still whines about you dripping light
as you proceed to make
a mirror out of the kitchen.
The sun skips,
watch it,
over the many rooftops
with all the abandonment of a bouncing football
in a Friday afternoon,
watch it,
a blonde child
hopping here and there
and the billion old stringy crones
left to skies unknown
leaving a
sometimes silvery
sometimes uncolored
sometimes allcolored
makeup on the streets and the buildings.
A happy child with a camera
the sun slowly but steadily
hops all over the nation and the continent

but only here
here in this city
here in this neighborhood
here in this building
a shy window squeaks shyingly while
her face makes little rainbows flower up
as the cheerful gold hands wave by
in an infinite cascade of overeager hellos.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: violence/gore)
They are all angry. They were all angry.The have always been angry.

Or so it seems, judging from the LCD-iluminated screen I read.

Someone, in a country somewhere, has stolen, yet again, the nation´s entire budget. People roar, the plazas roar, the riot units bleed, and everyone else simmers, bruised and tased.

The past has come back again, as I hurl barricades and barricades against my bedroom´s door. My most known friends has come back from overseas, back to Christmas with his family, his friends, his highschool friends may I specify, and away from the roars of the television debate, those foreign networks droning on about the smoke that isn´t seen.

Once, a man just went and strangled his wife, tossed his three kids out of the window.
Off he went to glomp a high speeding train.
It just happened one day.
It will happen again, as it has happened before, and everytime the 11 o ´clock news eill gleefully report on his family, his neighbours, and the police.Like always.

Change the nations, change the cities, the ages and the victims, the woman who is on her third frappe of the day switches to the
marriage of some rich kid, parents are bussinessmen, to some rich woman. What a nice dress, the woman of the daily three frappes and ten moccas muses, as she squeezes her wallet...her husband´s, her offspring´s wallet. 

People in the shopping malls have to watch out: perhaps someone will throw himself, throw herself. A kid driven insane by school, a young student who has found his two painstakingly suffered college years are worthless, a graduate who has found his year of jobhunting are sterile because a Minister, some boss or whatever, declared the nation´s situation cannot sustain new employment.

And the family and neighbours cannot stand a useless bum, there´s that, too.

That´s why security personnel alway caution you to open your umbrellas; nobody wants to get splattered by the red bits and unidentifiables that will rain and splash off the pavement. Oh well, let´s wait for the newscrew at seven o ´clock. Oh, and the teary eyed family who had no idea, who are deeply regretful, to the serious police director, to the president who still assures us everything is being done to improve- and cut to the next page: let´s see the result of the latest soccer matches.

And then we toss the newspaper to the trashbin, unless the matron roars at us to save it, useless bums that we are, have to clean up the windows, clean up the house, clean up the act, clean up our souls, clean up the world.

The barely censored photos and the nearly bursting out of the page headline grow fainter and fainter, squeaking glasses, lame stupid jokes blaring on the radio the matron loves to hear,until the news become dilluted in soap and water and the city below.
The Crimson Section of the News
Tried my hand at prose poetry, still not satisfied after three days of working in this.
(Too bad DA has not "Prose Poetry" category)
Have you ever asked them
where they were
when the moon gained its first human-footed zit?
The wonder,
the same wander of seeing the movies
of spaceships
cameras zooming
lazy lights, many colors
in the tunes of a trumpet.

Once, you might have;
the wonder and pride
of that cousin
who left to live in another country
the anguish of a friend´s
shortlived return
from his overseas doctorate
-all paid by his parents!-
their photos their emails

and you scurry around
around crumbles of rejection letters
beetling piles of efforts
around in the crevices of the world

arthropods believe their homeclaimed
nest, claimed to their sad little apppendages
are their world, and so they live in,

ought to think of a never ending task in an hellenic hell
an forever unpaid effort
hard face, hard efforts
ample anting, juggling a grain sand
on all your hands

no time to see those butterflies
blessed from pupation
go and soar above satellites
no time for bitterness
gnawed in your teethless mandibles
-sky does not exist,
your hardback will not let you
rise your head above your routine

a routine below the wide adventurous sky
far below the unschedled epicness
of your cartoons and movies
when time was just
someowhere on the corner of your eyes

not a doom hurled at your face amidst flames
from above, like a screaming telescope flick´s cliche.
Once, you met her
all bloom and fresh out of medlearning
sorry sir we still have no response to your request
all bashfulness and apologies

to be considered a sir
when your clothes were too big
your college still fresh
your stumbling on these offices too evident

you saw her
still no answer sir issues with the system
still typing away at the unseen screen
still apologetic
now a wooden voice
an autumnal face
an sunsetting complexion

how curious
to come and go
always requesting
always soldering on
like every tough grown must do
and always an apology
always hapless
in her tiny tiny cubicle

no sign of her old nurse dress
but her fingertyping is everpresent

you hear the typing
coming from many
many cubicles
and your rimmed glasses
strain themselves to
hear the apology
sorry sir sorry sir sorry sir
but you can´t define a face
can´t picture a voice a signature
to the hands blurring on the desk

they told you to tough it up
to man it up
many many years ago
to go out there
and handle your things
your dealings with the wide wide world

but now there is no nurse
no face to talk to
and no answer to any request

Clearly, it is your fault
you stupid senile old man.

Bureaucracy of Health
Any suggestions on a better title?



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Serendiipitii Featured By Owner 5 hours ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the support! :heart:
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 4 hours ago
No problem!
Scarlettletters Featured By Owner 5 hours ago  Professional Writer
Thanks very much for faving my work.
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 4 hours ago
No problem Brendan!
DarkRose407 Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the favorite
DarkRose407 Featured By Owner 1 day ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the favorite
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 1 day ago
No problem!
WaywardSkies Featured By Owner 1 day ago  New member Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fav!
oviedomedina Featured By Owner 1 day ago
No problem!
Bark Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Professional Writer
Thank you!
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