An antiques shop in an old barn, surprising location yet feeling like a
stroll among hints of old memories and forgotten relationships… Clouds
of peaceful dust smoothing the once scary shadows, layers of
inescapable dust matting the once shiny lacquered cabinets, smears of
indifferent dust blemishing the once brazing purple velvet… Memories
fade to an old but highly valued mush to which I keep clinging, because
they are me - or that’s what I think. Maybe that’s the reason why I buy,
sometimes from such Swiss antique barns facing impending closure, sometimes from overcrowded
flea markets, such nifty and hip vessels for my casual craft beer
libations. The supporting brew was Italian, a thick malty IPA slightly sweet and
full of hops as it belongs, in a KuK marked glass from WWI times. I guess everything
will taste then classier, even this Monkey Planet from Birrificio Legnnone, only one less pleasant sting short of greatness…
His hair was white
and his body broken
as we spoke;
Two men on a planet
I had been living
in all the broken places
and the edges of my eyes
were beginning to crack.
He told me that.
“Nothing in this world
smells as good as the
person you love.”
He caught me drooling at my plate.
And just then
we suddenly became aware
of every growing hair
on the surface of our skin.
Telepathy in summer scented air;
Minute sea organisms caught with fine nets.
We had no rainwater,
and never had trouble with real thirst
but suffered from a longing
to feel quantities of liquid
passing down our throats