Giulio Malcangi

Flat Breast

 

Tell me
i'm not a wanker,
even if my hand
is going up
and down,
husking the corn,
sanding the wooden mantle.


Tell me
i'm not a dreamer,
indolent,
apathetic
and lazy sleeper.

Pondering,
wondering...
and nothing else.

With this hand,
buffing my forehead,
to stimulate
the grey matter
which seems to be..
..dead.

Me,
my desk,
my chair,
we are three products
of these escalation projects.

I'm stubborn like them,
hard wood cheap furniture.
They are made in thousands,
to become all the same.
In every flat.

And flat, i am.
And flat are they.
And flat, maybe, you are.

You can buy them at Argos..
You can buy my soul,
in the 'arvo.

And my conviction
will be this headache,
and heart pain,
and your english accent
bloomed on a french flower,

 (and now i sigh)

and thinking of you
lets my headquake
be the lesser evil.

And i could love
your flat breast,
and i could bring you
a flat white

every morning,
after every night.



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