Evening Encounters

I walk down the street
the neon lights
of the empty offices
shine at me
revealing proudly
that they have the cleanest
and the purest
desks.
shelves.
lonely computers.

the flawless cleanness
of the forgotten pens.
This is the evening sadness
of the empty offices.

getting away from this one
I encounter yet another one:
the sadness of the empty offices
is changing by
the sadness of a man in the corner.

a man in the corner
has to be a curious fact.
a belly.
and a mustache.
a soft smell of sweat surrounds his head
like a halo.
looking down at his shoes
he observes
his expensive black shoes
brown with wet mud.
obviously he's a bit drunk.

getting away from this one
I encounter yet another one:

I encounter cars.
fast cars.
angry cars.
beeping, beeping.
people shouting at each other.
empty cars.
standing still.
you can still smell the blood.

the sadness of encounters between people.
the sadness of evening encounters.
hungry eyes
exploring, examining,
catching each other's gaze.

the sadness of being pretty and fuckable.
the sadness of looking for an object to fuck –
the saddest sadness of all.

on the highway
the street is wet.
the world is out of tears,
I say.
the street is wet with the rain.

a cat is running down the street
looking for a cat to fuck.
the souls are not born for immortality.




winter, 2007