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every time I try to wake up
I start counting sheep or tanks until I reach 50 the dreams disappear outside the days are holding hands together shouting at me country, country, we want soldiers * I spit in my palms dash ahead and plunge forward no day can catch me I look in the mirror and wonder how the hell will I look like when I’m old if I had the power to choose I’d prefer the looks of someone like kris kristofferson I stop here maybe someone is already old and looks like me in front of my block a kid is pulling along some pieces of polystyrene imagining he is a railway engine mechanic old chap he’s shouting at me how long does it take to get to my mum what crime what sin did I commit last night I was standing on a roof I strangled my name with a piano chord or a spider web I took my identity card the reporter licence the driver licence I carved them into pieces threw them in plastic bags the garbage men saw me I gave them a beer to shut up from now on you may simply call me the pickhammer man I drill holes into the sky to see where the hell to die I don’t know what got me for a while I’ve been writing with fury I write as if I were lashing christ come on you jade get on golgotha I write as if I hadn’t gone through the confessional for twelve years now I do not want poetry any more I want penitence sometimes I feel like believing that god is using me as a human shield in front of the volley of paupers who put themselves to death they have no excuse from me if I wake up pick up my body and walk then I expect from everyone to do the same because every day is a bone that makes a stray dog happy every day is a glass of combination brandy that makes a homeless happy today I learned one more thing if you stay at the table with the death or with the silence don’t look her in her eye only when she goes to the toilet drink her damned cup and run when I grow up I will become baron Münchhausen I will travel on a cannon ball to be closer to you earlier when I grow up some more I will learn this stupid British English and after I grow up completely I will think I am a poet and write about all these things * = a game for children, when they hold hands tightly not to let someone break up the chain of hands when running up in their direction
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