he settles down to his

restaurant-styled desk

and he tries sorting his

staple of calling cards

thinking of visitors for his


that lies in a static state

since april and frozen

since the start of corona.

but then he types some

intimate thoughts

as if he’d do a striptease

for his muse

just like anne did for him


and if eroticism and faked

climax mix

diluting borders of true


so it all happens in public

life and in politics.

he settles down to his

writing desk

editing poems he wrote

at a bus stop/ the subway/

waiting between fast food


the waft of spices colours

his words

wynton marsalis with his

refined orchestral breeze

lets the words dance along

for a grand ballet/ colours

blotched upon a giant canvas

of imagination

for great happiness.




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