Worn and old cloth,
Who has freckles on his cheeks
Left spilled henna, -
Which is not breathing and empty,
More precisely, with a cotton-feather skeleton,
The system of organs which is not easy:
A crumpled newspaper formed?
Who knows? Maybe I'm a toy.
I might be taken apart
And you can cut my belly open with a knife
Without waiting for a little happiness.
I can scratch my eye sockets with my fingernail
And nod at them, and pull your fingers,
And can I poke my navel with a needle,
And you can look under the fabric for salce.
I can look up at the sky with my feet
And fall off the table, squaring his shoulders,
And, having run up, to beat the head about walls:
My skull is provided with a thread-frame.
I don't even need to be afraid of hail:
It will only melt inside the lump
Rolled up during this time cotton wool,
Similar to drooping of the kidney.
And you're my toy -
Of flesh, blood, and intercellular matter,
Who had never been bored before,
But in the future, probably bored.
28. 12. 2019.
Свидетельство о публикации №120010302541