Wastepaper Poem by Adrian Andrei

The coffee flavor wears my morning cravings.
It is me, the pragmatic trashcan fallen on its head,
Thrown away by the third floor neighbor while cleaning hers thoughts catcher,
The rain squashing her trusses, linden buds children's,
On the newspaper-smeared face of the window.

In the distance legs throwing windmills
To the compromises filled belly of the asphalt
That caresses the grass blades that never caught the daylight.

I'm sick of the onion tubers
That raise their perfumed flowers from the sun and tobacco burned jaws
Of the masons that dress the blocks in white.

The concert starts in the morning.
I'd throw a fistful of sun on the window, to keep my luck,
But my neighbor geese stopped eating rainbows after they got caught.
I sacrificed again the rooster's song to the telephone waving -
Snooze five minutes -

Since I undressed off my parents' house I keep my feats under the blankets
So they don't see the holes in my socks.
They used to ask 'who will wash for you, who will iron? '
If I only knew someone who'd sew...

I like to draw my morning
Before the moon melt in the night tar,
I feel like an architect that builds the paper on which he will draw the masterpiece.
In fact, wastepaper and drafts are always useful.