Image: © Timon Musy
Author: Timon Musy
On the ceiling of a thin plastered cheekbone
03:00 a.m. probably not a Thursday
Fades the shaded reflection of a dim, buzzing streetlamp
On the irises of a non-sleeping amnesiac
“Sing in turn, tomorrow’s a blackout away”
He seems to scream inside his head
Lips half opened
Humming the sound of a dead lightbulb
On the flowing beat of the insomniac cars
That exist but to this only purpose
To give the illusion a whole world revolves around a center of entropy
The man, is he
The sum of anything that could be
Facing a wall
Sitting as a drunken or erased Buddha
Thinking in spite of all its emptiness
Could that be a man
It could try to be first
A thin crack warns
From it will disappear in a thousand, three hundred and fifty-two years
Mind, wood, and the temple that contains them
Felt it something once it could have been pain
Love
Hatred or indifference pondered in the presence of another pain
Love
Hatred or indifference
Suddenly, a blackout, out of time all clocks considered
Quartz, copper, photon, sun through death sentence
In the harshness of a cold, unwelcoming bed
A tomorrow is sought
Though it is feared, that other self it always brings
The oblivion it shares
The indecency it sweats
The so it is now it imposes
On the sound of a first rain drop
No one is there
On the noise of the flood
All waits and looks, will someone open that door, will someone talk
Of the hive full of smoke, of the other so different
Facing a wall, behind a door, dimly lit by the reflection of a streetlamp on the ceiling
Wondering why the moon and the birds chase each other
Or if the blackout really has to end
Blinding as it is
In all the consistence it possesses
The drunken spoke once: “I heard of a sick medic”
Next thing we know he fainted
Nobody rose him up
He may still be lying there right now
Inflated with water and disillusions
What he meant was never understood
In a small crack on a wall
A train station where people leave but never arrive
Electricity jolts in the wires
As it coughs in a handkerchief the beat of a heart
That exists but to this only purpose
Drowned in a cold bed occupied by a single person
Whose eyes buried in the wrinkles of an unrested trunk
Enlightened by the loss of those who live
Awaits the blackout
Hoping for it to never end
But knowing well that tomorrow is at the window
Bringing oblivion
Until the amnesiac falls again on the head