If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense.
turquoise of the sky, peeping through the cloudy mist
as milk narrows to the drain
dripping from a granite bathtub
is that all you see with eyes shut?
really! that’s.. shocking!
Focus on that speckle in the dark.
Late Mr. H Melville
Rain fluttering over the dead wall
behind the window
forms another kind of mist,
blurry, like the memories we don’t want to talk about now.
Ah, Bartleby that copyist!
Chekhov’s Ghost in a slum-classroom
That girl in the looking glass,
skinny hands, twisted bones
beauty, in her reflecting retina
she wasn’t conceived this way *sounds too corny these days*
it’s day to day that wears you out
‘‘tell me the truth, tell me!
‘‘the fact’s Constance has shot herself”.
Photo credit: Lumanetri © 2015