I watch my hands
moving about,
spreading like ceilings up front,
like roofs below my face;
a mirrored face that makes me shy;
a life that propels the moment

I measure time in bob dylans,
from Don't Look Back
to The Shadow Kingdom

I have ideas working their way

I see dead Runell smoking & smiling,
installing the first colour Mac for me

I see dead Dellaree, full of intelligence,
before turning alcoholic

I see practically dead Sune,
degrading himself into intense cowardice

Those still alive
much too bent on existing,
dummer than most,
not realising
that they're already dead,
those obstinate birdbrains,
not good enough
even for a compost

When I look in the mirror
at 4 AM,
having to piss,
I don't feel 100% inhabited

I'm a bit shy of myself,
can't really look myself in the eye
to acknowledge ”my self”,
realising
that I'm much deader
than ever alive,
because as soon as I was conceived
by two horny adults
that I didn't chose, dead since long,
I was on my way, fast,
to death and incineration
and a few scattered short-term leftovers,
my children no more, or less,
significant,
than a couple of mindless fish
with their mouths stupidly open
up the stream:
friends barely a slight friction,
having me involve in skincare
and the good old ”not-to-be”

I'm alive like a rock,
dead like a neighbour;
not bothered one bit;
just fucking anybody up
with free thoughts
and harsh days