An eventful Monday
after finishing my work
I felt that living void
deep, painful,
dense but foam,
impossible to fill.
I spent 10 quid
on lukewarm beer,
latent addictions
anxiety written in capitals
as mustard on my wounds
winter cold running my neck
bed bugs menacing my skin
who waited me patiently
to get laid.
Leaf through
"Le Fakir" en francais,
and slightly drank
all of it;
while Dvořák flowed over
the new dirty kitchen.
Needy for
bloody bitter flavour,
not to forget
even for a while
that I was still alive.
Once again when
my ribs were well placed back,
I regret jealous of
the poor men
who own
their own time.
Self slavery.
