It's a damn' sad day
that looks like
a missed-up karma
whose the ghost town
doesn't remember ...
My coffee is a black ink
drawing Arabic calligraphy
in the Sahara of my soul ...
Hudson river before drown ,
calls to me, telling :
''Love awaits you in my troubled waters ! ''
I not longer believe in your deceitful spells !
Santa won't be coming today ...
It's a day without glory
where it doesn't even rain ...
Maybe a few tears ?
So the Manhattan psycho
can pretend ...
Don't cry baby for a mocha cup
in the wandering lunacy
of an old café for suicides...
My eyes are tired
for not looking anymore .
I am unshaven like a shepherd
from heaven who lost his flock ...
A crappy sound system in my head
plays me some Ipanema's rhythms .
Guevara is no longer responding
and Maradona dancing
one last salsa in Napoli ...
What if I went to pay me
an apfelstrudel at Zavarsky's ?
I will discuss litterature with Dostoevsky
and maybe I'll meet a girl
who won't be my daughter's mother ...
Tell me what's missing in my life ?
My friend,if you don't give the obolus
of atonement to the cabby ,
you'll go round in the hell of Soho
until the dawn of time !
On the wet roadway
a queen of clubs with a priced look
invites me to a party ...
It's a day without infamy
where voices only bother to breathe
and smiles invites you to die ...
The weather forecast reports
a flight of japs armed with cameras
on Ellis island ...
I must go now .
Sorry for disturbing your eternal rest.
It was the story of an americano
style ground zero mood ...
..............................................
( We collaborated on this work )
Sylvia Plath .
Scott Fitzgerald .
Tennessee williams .
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 14th, 2025 10:35
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Ellen Marsell, Sealgair
Offline)
Comments4
One of your most beautiful poems, Lorenz.
It smells of coffee and solitude — a delicate blend of melancholy, irony, and quiet philosophy.
Incredible metaphors.
It's a somewhat lazzy stroll where one aspires to nothing...
A conversation with oneself and the forth wall where the plaster is coming off. Pealed wall paper in a paisley shows a lot of wear. Don't take any of Dostoevsky's advice on women he almost got shot once. A wonderful write
Poor gentrified plaster walls .Misery wanders like a shameful shadow...
My coffee is a black ink .....
Wonderful write !
The black ink of my coffee inspires me strange calligraphy ...
A little masterpiece in the spirit of the “late decadence of the metropolis.
A saxo crying on ground zero !
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