Walking the way- K. B

                       Walking the way



Walking the way, looking at the word from behind silver glass.
On my way , two youngsters, a smell of cologne
And an old guy, watching his dog wandering in the bushes ;
The odorous cuisine of a french restaurant, and the walking of chic ladies,
Waiting for them at the turn, to take a glance at the posh attitude,
Way of life, fucking solitude at the bottom of the eyes ;
Multi linguist not knowing the mother tongue
Sticking behind bars the fresh trail of the walking dead ;
Drowning in despair , and singing Brownings poetry to the air ;
Filling the people with gasoline, pumping hard down the throat,
« La boca » open , and a mix of stupefaction replaces drugs;
That rolling excrement behind the teeth; of a pastor tired from duty
And speechless behind his wife when she whips him on the face,
Attending mass with a spear of mind.

There’s no more tiredness when love takes over.
If he dares to be kind or helpful he will be treated as a pervert unless he assumes
Some everlasting position in the heart of men while confessing at every corner
The pain of being alive in world of whores, sucking life out of men’s cocks,
Leaving them drained from all energy; But radiant with pride accomplished
Until the lights go off, until they find themselves in the beds of unworthy wives
To turn on the radio the next morning and listen to the same trash,
Eating whatever marketed product as junk food, swallowing ego with silver spoon
And ignoring the poor rotting bananas in the basket right across the room.
The kids; heavy eyed ; with pockets under sockets at such a tender age
Looming over the counter to get some free booze so that the pain cease ;
Drinking their ass-off until the mind decease, until the mind of tired parents
Send them back to that specialist looking through glasses lifted by a nose
To get all the information they need. They are anguishing people with ill-quoted phrases
Until the jaw drops and the money falls on the desk by a loving hand,
Reassuring that he will be ok but keeping him in custody, infiltrating every
Thread of life, keeping closed files about people’s history .
The record of humanity has shifted from poetry to doctors
As if to show that illness has become strong and surrounding.
No more, the comfort in a few lines to warm the heart, instead,
The hurried pace to the drugstore, to take the pain away
And cure the mind from doubts, and above all , fear.
The ongoing chronicle talks, speaks of itself.

Let’s send them all to the devil, lurking behind white collars,
Shaking hands with the population, and sending kids to aimless wars.
It is a harsh era where the talks go to the fisting of the trust of men
From behind, from the inside, and from above ;
Money is wasted in a crisis of spirit and questionable ethics
Of some self-empowered magnates who want to win the world
At their cause and take the biggest share, to leave money for granted
In safe accounts, treading to kill the world under some varnished boots
And the tingling of glasses at a ceremony
To keep people busy from mischiefs ;
Selling the dream to those who have nothing,
And keeping the beam to those who own everything ;
Bones are piled up for the dogs to eat away what’s left of the « carne » !
It’s that same  foolish step to reach for  the wealthiest of all,  as well as so many things
That are yet to be figured out, like mass destruction of innocent children
Crying silently behind the bars of obligations and adulthood,
That meaningless soup sold to the less fortunate !
We need a prophet for these times who reaches to the hearts of things
And beyond, the people’s approval, and the taking of expression and words,
To whole other level.

It makes me sick to never trust anything, not even my typing machine
It’s as if, losing trust in my parents; made me loose trust in everything
It is very uncomfortable, but i’ll stop complaining. And just live;
I used to make lines by singing them to the wind, wooing nature and men
With a full throated ease. It has to remain thus. Oh, Life ! I trust you.
What is my responsibility in this world ? Well I can’t bear any, and never
Shall I endorse my chains again.





All rights reserved. 2018.


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