sometimes it just feels like
having to make an interjection,
accompanied by,
and listening to, and making do away the
slightest spiderweb tickle...
sometimes it just feels like
you writing something and your muse is
only an insomniac radio d.j.,
and it really does feel
like a freefall sometimes,
having taken the time to possess
a library of music, giving it all
up to simple turn on the radio....
it can appear pointless at times...
but then you can hardly stomach
the need for adverts...
and because of adverts you started
building up a music library...
but then again, once more:
you end up only writing
for a niche... i live a few miles from
London, but given my holiday to
the most obscure place in Poland...
London is about as far as the moon
from where i'm criss-crossing...
tango of a daddy-longshanks spider...
confirming that with the
crown beheld by Edward IV...
was radio, always the necessary
blockage, the necessary sound
when you woke up?
i built a music library
and became prone to listening to the radio
at 3a.m.... nice... real nice,
i'm about to do a Borat impersonation
with the words: jak sie masz?
i.e. how are you?
don't know, given a jew asked it,
i'm starting to wonder what it means
to be alive in Tel Aviv these days....
and that really is: balaclava worth
a statement on it own.
if i knew i'd come back to listening
to the radio, i wouldn't
care to make a compendium of obscure
music, i'd throw the television out,
and i'd read a poem more often than
taking to the ritual of ingesting
a newspaper...
see the ailment?
bound to wishing to be blown up
in a terrorist attack?
for most days, i feel like
a street-cleaner of the past ought-nots
and did-in-fact happenings,
later slimmed into a new year's eve
firework sadness concealing
a claim to a celebration.
