The Toes On My Feet Were Blue And Still People Made Me Sick - Poem by I.F. Kobjelska
I wrote a kind of
ready - made poem
as Kolenič says,
but my body
was still digesting
Door! So useless because there was no place for me
to curl up and sob
like women use to do.
There was nowhere a pair of hands
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,
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.
tailor - made.
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