I wrote a kind of
ready - made poem
as Kolenic says,
but my body
was still digesting
walls,
windows,
door.
Door! So useless because there was no place for me
to curl up and sob
behind them
like women use to do.
There was nowhere a pair of hands
so purely
home - made
that would be able to kill me
from my pop - art living.
I wanted to google for a new nose between my eyes,
friends,
new benches in front of my block of flats.
There was no money for that!
I wanted to drink for those pictures
recorded on walls and in the bodies around,
I wanted to warm up my feet in big slippers.
None of the days fit into trousers.
Everything was
tailor - made.
I.F. Kobjelska
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-toes-on-my-feet-were-blue-and-still-people-made-me-sick/
