Hold my unsteady hand and
Guide me through this city of
Well-oiled bicycles and soft blond hair
The open market scares me with its
Crowded language and refusal of
International credit cards

Every step of mine is a
Pretentious meditation on the raw cause of
Heart crumbs strewn on coffee tables or
Blood bubbles on a river cruise with wine
These people don’t understand suffering like I do

There is no moral explanation for
Vanity on display windows staring back
Subtly adjusting your shirt or
Touching your hair without making
Eye contact with strangers of other universes

I’m caught on the hook like a
Gasping fish and then laid on ice
I learnt that putting on a sunflower yellow tank top
And leather boots only inspire
Street side voyeurism
And cat-eyed liner only serves to accentuate the
Alien belly and unshaven boldness

I declare this place an
Empty pot on a cold stove or
Faultless windowsill innocence
Too easy to look over and stimulates
Store-bought philosophies
There is history buried somewhere, I think
But I am not an archaeologist and
Paying attention takes too much effort.


Artwork by Gerda Wegener, “Queen of Hearts (Lili)” 1928.

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