• bluebird 92w

    ▪la cecité du savon▪

    #pod

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    ▪la cécité du savon▪

    I've been like a key out of it's bunch,
    A key for room number sixty seven
    Fifth floor;
    Somewhere strangers would request for separate beds,
    Praying for the way they make love behind elevator doors,
    Occupied by three;
    A hand for a waist and another to press buttons
    From the parking hall having stairs for wheelchairs
    To empty lobbies with rugs that haven't been vacuumed yet;
    Those hands,
    Signing off with their fingers playing over the steamed walls,
    Warm tips touching the cold metal, forming endless circles
    Somewhere I once learnt to love a song I disliked a year back
    Through someone else's ears, wired out;
    Camouflaged by the glitches within the elevator music loop,
    Muzak, never recognising the instrument being used
    To be able to end up at the wrong floor,
    At least that's something to sing to
    At least there's still a corner to cling to.
    Those plants which I'd suspect to be plastic
    Never watered along the long, identical hallways,
    With a frame of a soulless art that I cannot put any sense into
    It's half a story and half a wish
    Not entirely either.
    Oh no, isn't it crazy?
    I'm slowly learning to exist in places
    That have no past,
    Empty drawers and beds we've never slept in
    With water that doesn't taste well and drains that aren't dry yet
    Just an infinite present.

    These doors aren't yet marked by termites over the edges,
    And there are no siblings
    To argue about authority over identical rooms.
    Somehow, pushing back these heavy curtains, gives a strange scenery
    Something your lover once wanted you to see,
    Blurred city lights against a window glass wiped with a dirty cloth.
    Chairs for four and cups for two,
    With a kettle inside an armoire, and a spider with its eggs;
    Seven hangers for a day's stay,
    Unlike your mother's way.
    A television that you didn't pay for,
    And shampoos in labelled bottles which you wouldn't use;
    Clean towels on your bed,
    And a pillow with a hair strand before you slept.
    A key for room number sixty seven,
    Fifth floor;
    The only place where you wouldn't feel lonely enough,
    Sleeping on a double bed,
    Under a blanket you couldn't afford.
    Somewhere the calendar ends tomorrow morning,
    And the wardrobe has clothes lined in a suitcase;
    Fans that don't have regulators,
    And geysers switched on before you plan to bathe.
    Mirrors with stickers from whoever they belonged to,
    And those strangers scolding their children in the hall.
    Oh no, isn't it crazy?
    I'm slowly learning to exist in places
    That have no past,
    Empty drawers and beds we've never slept in
    With water that doesn't taste well and drains that aren't dry yet
    Just an infinite present.

    It doesn't feel right, to walk in those shoes,
    Across a room that mimics a place,
    That we pretend to be home;
    Where I spent the night, without alarms,
    Listening to the movies, with no subtitles,
    Played on the other side of the wall.
    Air conditioners making a strange noise after every hour,
    And telephones you've now forgotten how to dial upon.
    There are tissues on the dresser
    Which you'll wonder if used before;
    A dustbin still full of newspapers,
    And a refrigerator with paid beverages.
    Buffets serving desserts you can't name,
    And people who manage smile back at you after you do,
    Serving kebabs along.
    We could've watched people ride ponies uphill,
    And pluck flowers downhill, in the hope of cultivating roses,
    Back at our place.
    Somehow,
    It doesn't seem that scary,
    Living in places we don't know;
    With strangers in the room next to us
    And ceilings so obscure,
    Buying things we can't pronounce,
    And speaking a language they don't understand;
    Among other things,
    When it comes to doing it by your side.
    It's half a story and half a wish,
    Not entirely either.
    Oh no, isn't it crazy?
    I'm slowly learning to exist in places
    That have no past,
    Empty drawers and beds we've never slept in
    With water that doesn't taste well and drains that aren't dry yet
    Just an infinite present.

    I've been like a key out of it's bunch,
    A key for room number sixty seven
    Fifth floor;
    Occupied by three;
    It doesn't feel right, to walk in those shoes,
    And to be able to end up at the wrong floor,
    Somewhere strangers would request for separate beds,
    And telephones you've forgotten how to dial upon.
    Somehow,
    It doesn't seem that scary,
    At least that's something to sing to
    At least there's still a corner to cling to.

    ©bluebird