This morning ,in the dust under the bed
I looked for something of yours .
But nothing remaining ...
You were just a desirable little quanta
in intimate red and blacks mechanics
which I amused myself by equating
according to my whim ...
I 'm going to make a coffee .
The better to think about
what i'm not going to write to you.
I'm cold in your arms .
I want to take refuge in other sheets.
You know...Poets can only love
their reflection ,
But only if it's obedient ...
I need inspired departures ,
not 3 shameful words
that taste like a quick shot
of coke before work ...
You were just the requiem to come
for some bad rhymes of the kind
that seduces maids and depressives...
We were just a solo that played
false recital of the great waters...
Dirty laundry spinning
in the boredom's recycling machine ...
Your bewitching night water
is nothing but a whiff of cooking .
I have to take out the garbage.
It's wonderful to think
that I won't have to bring your dog
to pee anymore !
I could read in its silence
how much he hated me ...
Tonight ,you'll sleep
in another bullfight ,
and when the beast falls ,
Will you think a little of me ?
_______________________________
Love is infinity within a poodle's reach .
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 2nd, 2025 05:35
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell, Sealgair
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Comments3
This letter leaves questions as to whom it is addressed to. Is it the reader or to the author themselves. A most thought provoking write.
I don't really know .Maybe just the translation of some universal infinity within the reach of poodles !
It seems that this unusual piece conceals a particular philosophy: love as a temporary illusion with an expired shelf life.
The poem absorbs elements of poetic confession, domestic grotesque, and existential satire, balancing between revelation and mockery. An expressive and original piece!
I'm in a banter mood today !
An act of artistic deromanticization — a mocking and tragicomic farewell to illusions. It was a compelling read!
I don't know really who is more guilty : Love by itself or the poet who uses it as a pretext ?
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