Sunday, 17 January 2016

Furniture For Failure

“Mother and Child” by Pablo Picasso (1901)

As I sit in my bedroom and wear the watch my grandma gave me I am at peace with myself
Just like the rest of us
We’re just frauds
And I think
During his lifetime
Every man should be the proud owner of a fake Rolex
At least once
He deserves as much luxury as she
She who only wears them real
But realistically she is too tedious and starving on trying times
He’ll opt for something else more colloquial, and perhaps fitting, for once

But our fathers' blazers hang off our shoulders two inches, too far
There’s beer in the fridge but it’s still not cold 
We’ll drink something else for it to chill 
In mean times
We’ll freeze the show and watch the road outside instead through see-through curtains
A kid runs after his ball, too late
So the drain swallows
Stomps of self-hatred make for pure entertainment
As lousy grown-up men contemplate their own future
And discipline themselves in the black reflection of their plasma screen

On holidays
They scream internally and get burnt
By stale cigarettes stolen second-hand and sip on expired adrenaline, with alkaline water
Like we
Feel sorry for those who need to loo in the middle of the jam
There isn’t escape
Never mind famine and a fucked-up driver
Who curses at himself
Like a bitch 
His car upon instinct scorns, at the others, without quotation marks, 
Kiss my rear