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| Starry Night, Jean-François Millet |
Turning and twisting inside the hot room,
my glass of
juice spills on the floor and
white linen
rages like the Northern Sea
while snow
falls on the black garden outside the window.
Falling
snow mutes sounds outside,
and when a
shell explode a couple of blocks away
the
shockwave multiplies into
her spicy
skin and primal harmonies as
we swallow
the intoxicating drink.
An electric
bass is tuned on somewhere
and someone
knocks heavily on the door.
My feet hit
the sticky bits and pieces on the floor as
you enter with the coldness of the carbonic
acid snow
of Mars in
your Afghan fur.
I say I
heard you were killed
and
you look dead pale to me
when you
spill your mind
about the
blood rimmed tide acoming
and the
matchstick men who want to separate chap
and animal.
Not even
warm cinnamon, spiced wine can
bring back
the color on your costly features as you ask me to
follow into
the night.
When you
disappear among the buildings
an airborne
military division looks like the Persides shower as it
moves towards the mountains
© Anders Enochsson 2009
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