Puppet X,10
Still
I don't know
One minute you're
squeezing the brains out of
goldfish, the next you're
running the show
After awhile
it's hard to raise an eyebrow over
anything
- the sound of
lightly falling souls
- your crotch cold and dreaming:
“pneumonia oldmonia
6 is half a dozen”
Is the way you
would say it
I suppose…
It shouldn't
have to be
that way
- raised to forget quickly
- smiling around
- used to being artificial
The dead dislike themselves
The living
are in pain
What hopelessness, misery,
despair
One thinks of washing his hands
One doesn't care…
We know - the rules - we know
- the road to Standard City
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem