Coldtips

What shall be your life
but a phone receiver
going constantly deaf
slammed constantly by the quarrells
and the saliva riots
extended from meal to meal?

Won´t even notice
how every floortile´s
scratch has gone cold
like the greyness above
all the cities.

What will happen
when every vein
falls asleep
every sneeze
frozen deep within
your fingernails

every dim room and doorway
joints all lit down
ghosts of maybe rains

you feel them:
like the old bones of a cliché