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Walking Around

Rating: 3.2
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
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COMMENTS
Florence L Chhangte 19 February 2016
Reading this poem brings Prufrock into mind
5 5 Reply
Interstellar Overdrive 22 February 2008
amazingly this man belives in the spontaneous sense of inspiration but in his work like this one, adding coherence in a random manne, r express the unavoidable talent he possesses with the manipulation of words to create imagery with even the flow of words, ignoring the sensory details of the meaning of the words this is one of my favorite poems hes written: D
29 15 Reply
M Asim Nehal 05 October 2016
Very nice comment.
0 0 Reply
Thyme Siegel 30 May 2007
eerily beautiful i love this poem. it almost ginsberg-esque, the crude loose imagery. it's amazing the darkness and the harshness. etching at the raw figure of humanity and tearing his soul into shards of insanity he breaths into the world the stifling hotness mirroring around and laying to rest in complete helplessness. i can't save the last weeping tune of loneliness because we humans we foes we lovers must scratch the bitter ends and read infinite syllables of painful, sinful, lustful, repulsive starry confusion.
28 18 Reply
space Sweeper 27 May 2005
wow...........................................................
15 29 Reply

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