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(no subject)
Mar. 15th, 2006 09:07 amrosenthal by moi
i like that piece about rosenthal
which rosenthal?
the one who wrote that grammar
or the one who caught that nazi?
which one?
because i read a book about rosenthal
i don't remember what was going on in there
but i remember street
white milky fog
the smell, the damp, the milkiness of fog
that i remember
houses showing though,
the street....
no, wait i also see another type of weather
the sun is setting over crowded street
a shabby writer walks, aghast, amid the crowds
the publisher has just accepted his first book?
the smell of fried potatos in the arches
the violet, darkening sky,
the setting sun?
the cries, the talk, the windowsills
the windows?
how is that that that everybody knows
the smells, the sounds of an evening street
if no one really goes out these days?
and what do poets write about if
not all that, plus a couple of ideas
nobody really needs or knows or trusts
but everybody knows this: the street
the smell of fried potatoes, faces, faces
and reads about them, and sniffs
and shuffles to the kitchen in their slippers
to make another coffee or a tea
and shuffles back to dim and stuffy room
to spend the rest of their life in there?
i like that piece about rosenthal
which rosenthal?
the one who wrote that grammar
or the one who caught that nazi?
which one?
because i read a book about rosenthal
i don't remember what was going on in there
but i remember street
white milky fog
the smell, the damp, the milkiness of fog
that i remember
houses showing though,
the street....
no, wait i also see another type of weather
the sun is setting over crowded street
a shabby writer walks, aghast, amid the crowds
the publisher has just accepted his first book?
the smell of fried potatos in the arches
the violet, darkening sky,
the setting sun?
the cries, the talk, the windowsills
the windows?
how is that that that everybody knows
the smells, the sounds of an evening street
if no one really goes out these days?
and what do poets write about if
not all that, plus a couple of ideas
nobody really needs or knows or trusts
but everybody knows this: the street
the smell of fried potatoes, faces, faces
and reads about them, and sniffs
and shuffles to the kitchen in their slippers
to make another coffee or a tea
and shuffles back to dim and stuffy room
to spend the rest of their life in there?
