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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-12-30 | [この作品をこのようにご覧ください english] | 次の方が提供されました hey
When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the street. Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always Going somewhere They knew I was there. Fifteen Years old and starving for them. Under my window, they would pause Their shoulders high like the Breasts of a young girl, Jacket tails slapping over Those behinds, Men. One day they hold you in the Palms of their hands, gentile as if you Were the last raw egg in the world, then They tighten up. Just a little. The First squeeze is nice. A quick hug Soft into your defenselessness. A little More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a Smile that slides around the fear. When the Air disappears, Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly, Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered. It is your juice That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes. When the earth rights itself again, And taste tries to return to the tongue, Your body has slammed shut. Forever. No key exists. Then the window draws full open Your mind. There, just beyond The sway of curtains, men walk Knowing something. Going somewhere. But, this time, I will simply Stand and watch. Maybe.
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