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The butter

Half a bar of butter in the mouth.
The waterglass full on the counter
next to the pans and pots.
I inhale the dust from the floor.
One ought to clean up sometimes
but only if they can't find excuses not to
which is rather impossible, I reckon.
The fan is standing behind me
placed on a strategical point.
A family across this tight strip of street
they are having lunch
right behind their lace curtains.


Immobile in my underwear
sweat is dripping from behind my knees.
Tongue buried in fat voice can't come up.
There is smoke of majestic statements
because they burn when they're spoken.
It would be good to take a turn at last
but only if they can't stand it anymore
which I doubt, since the sweet nausea
of immurement is ravishing.
Every sound hitting the wall avows
the waste of all this.


Half a bar of butter in the mouth.
I'll do my best to take it down
while sipping from the waterglass
that's standing full on the counter.
Soon I will be out of consciousness.