Perhaps we learn by constant repetition, but even when my nose bleeds, it is nothing
but watered-down ink dripping onto a creaky wooden floor covered with a cheap rug
pretending to be tapis polonais. One glance at Buster Keaton’s face, like a bookmark
marking scenes with bygone meanings, and I already know that there is no comfort
in the last feeling I want to experience.
I don’t watch films any more, just distant memories
of films I have already seen. Sometimes I even think
that perhaps Roundhay Garden Scene is all I need.
After all, what really draws my quotidian pictures
is silence.
I wake up for a brief moment from indefinite slumber just to shed a tear
over trifles that somehow slipped out of my reach, hoping that I can stay
like this for a little longer, and it doesn’t even hurt when I strike a chord
easy enough to play along, although sometimes I wonder how it could be
that these moments that are mine and mine alone all of a sudden turn me
all defensive, even though I know that your ugliness is an acquired trait
and there is no way of saying if I ever have what it takes to brush it off
just because it’s my imagination.
hidden pilcrow 