JOB (a poem)

Why must a man  survive

the passing of a twister

given total devastation

just took everything from him?

So, unnecessarily, I lie

This fire of a head

promises ashes

I see no meaning

–or I rather say– 

I know no meaning

is a state of things, instrinsecally

Futile attempts

Weather will be stupid still

for any poem to reflect us

And the little pleasures end as soon

as I aproach too much

This place is no Venice

but I smell the rotten air

Plague of my days

that only alcohol prevents me

from aknowledging

In such a capital way

I cry no more

but I'm about to burst in tears

when nothing happens

Yeah I’m feeling kind of...

Send a hurricane of wine

Send a full bottle of oblivion

cause that way I won't recall

this movie of mine

that I just have to keep on watching

All those scenes deleted

All those actors leaving

that I film in vain.

É.S.