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| | (1 recommendation so far) | Message 1 of 7 in Discussion |
| | From: LittleBill (Original Message) | Sent: 9/13/2004 7:01 PM |
A man sits at his desk
and looks around the tiny room
that has unavoidably become his home.
There is no carpet for he loves the feel
of the cool wodden floor on his bare
naked feet and in winter he wears
thick wollen socks and glides effortlessly
from the pc to the couch to sit and watch
his favourite old films on the huge flat tv screen
drink Mosel wine with camembert cheeses
and later he opens a window and smokes a cigar
before bending apart the couch
that quickly becomes his bed.
The room has no flowers but the walls
are crammed with huge cheap prints
of Monet and Van Gough and Warhol
so it seems almost alive with colour’s
of a captured fluidity.
He has never seen the need for curtains
Enjoying his free view of the stars and moon
and in the morning the rising sun is his realiable alarm.
Against one wall, stacked in many uneven
precarious piles are his books,
hundreds and hundreds that he has read and
mostly liked and read again and again.
Shakspeare, Dante, Moore, Poe, Christie
He once decided to count
exactly how many books he had,
but not today.
There is no telephone, but the nice lady
that owns the ‘jazz club�?in the basement
never complains when he gives people her number
and she is always happy to send
one of her girls up to tell him that someone
is ringing him downstairs.
He knows all her girls.
They stare at the glorious pictures on his walls
or admire his amazing dissaray of books
and then there are his records
rows and rows of sleek smooth vinyl Piafs and Grecos
Sinatras and Dorceys and Parkers
and sometimes they stay to dance,
eat his food
make love to him on the squeaky too small for three couch
sharing his wine and cigars
listening excitedly as he speaks of music and art
and sex and drugs and life
with each girl hoping that he’d just once
remember her name -
which he never does.
He is happy with the room
and when he is alone,
in that one lonely quiet hour before dawn
when the girls all sleep and the band in the basement
had gone home he smokes and looks at the stars thinking
his room would be
a good place to die.
©lb04
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Hi Lb - a rather sad reflective look at life I felt Emma |
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| Hi Emma....well...I'd prefer 'melancholy'...lol...thanks for reading... : )lb |
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You can read me a bedtime story anytime lb... I am not sure I would enter this room though...especially if he didn't remember my name! Cheek! lol Very well written as ever. Valerie X |
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| But how could I ever forget your name Janet ?...lol..thanks for the comment.. : )lb |
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| | From:  Zydha | Sent: 9/19/2004 2:30 AM |
Hy lb, I think the board moved too quickly at one point this week and I have found a few poems I had missed. This 'is' a sad read, but a very good one, I enjoyed this reflective and thoughtful piece, Zed |
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| Thank you Zed, actually I don't think he is all that sad, just resigned to his fate and trying to make the best of what he has....like so many of us are, I suppose. : )lb |
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