The yoga man in his hissing nostrils was raising throat to a water bottle .Summer is here but that was yesterday not smoothly done, now rounded off.Fail better would seem a worse quotation. To make Beckett turn in his absurd grave we are waiting for our own Godot.

You open the door and see the moon sitting awake on top of a sleeping rose.It is 3 A.M. and let me hear buzzwords of today, the night, a half-cooked night, an internet of sinking world, Guernica of geometric Picasso, a figure in thought.The night watchman’s stick plays music with the road, smelling of a black night .A police van plays a saxophone of love.

Yesterday we thought into a limited space. We walked up and down on park grass making territorial home on a green bench where all this seemed so inter-changeable.Each man in the park was a spectacle ,a visual image for temporary safe-keeping, a mind’s snapshot of a body posture filed in a temporary folder, later to be deleted .

But everything seems so inter-changeable.The stick watchman is now a famous cubist .A policeman is drinking water into cheeks.The moon is smelling like the black night And a rose fails better in fetal petal-sleep.The yoga man is staking claim to clean air.The green bench is clear of gurgle sounds from men in throats of water going down .

On a half-cooked night everything seems so inter-changeable, so easily replaceable.


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