but the sanctity of melons, the squeezing out of juices.
Now that we are purified,
addicted to the colour red, neon signs announce
electricity is dead.
A tranquil crowd of strangers, anxious for some "result",
the expressions on their faces
say all is built on guilt. At the back of the crowd (his arms crossed)
a man in white-face lies, swears nothing is disallowed,
something in him frozen
beginning to defrost.
The Journalist sips his tea (it's just the way he likes it,
very hot and sweet)
He's at his best when sitting down, at worst when on his feet.
Every word that comes from him comes from someone else.
Every article he writes but a paean to himself.
An Alice without a Wonderland, surrounded by little darlings
exclaiming they are oppressed, hammers her temporal lobe,
senses a lever that can't be pulled,
a button that can't be pressed.
Pulchritudinous Frankensteins make their debut, the city overflows
with antiques and decompressed futures
that slip through cartoon mouths, trickster eyes that dare
to spill out something new and therefore frightening.
To the inevitability of itself fading, a song of too many voices
pacifies, sends to sleep all those seeing maelstroms in their coffee cups,
reverberates through concrete substitutes,
teddy bears on washing lines, self perpetuating debris.
The Journalist sips his tea, hopes not everything will pass.
Alice somewhat frantic, can't find her looking glass.