18. almost caught

Running to catch the last train















Always so hard to get into that last train

The annoying goodbyes the emptinesses the aloneness

The realization of nothingness implied in any broken packet from the past

And then the flight

The climbing of the iron steps full of piles of recent defecations

Over the old ones – and those last over what one might call already the coprolites

Your skill in avoiding the shits

And now the running along the decrepit ones’ sinister street

With all those coquettes of a few old women without teeth

That concomitantly laugh and defecate only lifting a little their wide

Beshitted skirts

And now where would you put the emphasis

Of your slipping soles that add commas of shit or quotation marks

On the text of recent defecations on the gaudy street where the dying strut...?

For you’ve come to the brink of the cliff

And now but fast the big decision

About what to do then about that road that stops or ends abruptly

Whether you should jump for the ledge to the left

Or the ledge to the right

Both ledges so bloody narrow

The drop at the lip of them so steep and deep

Lethal

The ledge at the left looking more worn out and greasy

From the steps and hands of previous passers...

The left it is then...

But the drop is so fierce

Your heart is dangerously faint

Oh and now here you fly down the precipice...

Your death before the last train’s arrival certainly certified...

What a pity

But wait that your hands have managed to grab the railing

Of a balcony belongs to an end shop of a lower rung ledge

Where the people are younger though maybe meaner...

The termagant of a shop owner wants you disengaged

She comes a-poking with her butcher’s knives

She wants you down she wants you dead

Hooligan! – she’s shouting – Damned hooligan!

But the lady customer imprecates in your favor?

Well maybe she does

She’s lifting her arms to heavens and reproving the boss

Telling her to mind the eyes of the hanger-on

Look at his terror look at his outrageous fright the man’s a wreck

And anyway the bump you complain of

The bump at your window it was made from the inside

Not by any outside hooligan but by one of ours it was...

So the miracle is on

The boss’ heart softens

She turns her back she allows you to climb up the railing

And walk down the gallery to the next floor...

From that flat deserted floor full of rain and ruins

Through the neck looking down toward the lower rung

At your peril you must now traverse

The gangs of younger and younger thugs...

And then the unending useless works

The works impassable

Where the workers look at you with irrepressible hate

And their gigantic machines of raw iron dressed in loose concrete

Would swallow you whole (are they even yearnig to?) with a gulp

So you better turn legal

You better turn into the normal way of access to the station

You better alas try to make it through the worse gang of them all:

The cops – they don’t need any excuse to harass and to murder

They are the fucking law...

How they poke at you with which haughty stupid loathing

How they pretend to look for drugs or who knows which other shit

Inside your gullet with their filthy monkey hands down your choking

Mouth...

Finally a cruel cultivated captain – a nasty fairy

Lets you go forward into the station per se

He recognizes a fellow skeptic

Only that down on his luck

He sees a kin after a fashion a kind of compatriot

One of them with the scarred hopeless disbelieved soul...

The trail trembles becomes white hot

The train is in abeyance sighing like a dragon in the last throes of sleep

You’ll make it yet

You’ll make it

Relax

Relax...