I wrote a kind of <br /> ready - made poem <br />as Kolenic says, <br />but my body <br />was still digesting <br />walls, <br />windows, <br />door. <br />Door! So useless because there was no place for me <br />to curl up and sob <br />behind them <br />like women use to do. <br /> <br />There was nowhere a pair of hands <br />so purely <br /> home - made <br />that would be able to kill me <br />from my pop - art living. <br /> <br />I wanted to google for a new nose between my eyes, <br />friends, <br />new benches in front of my block of flats. <br />There was no money for that! <br />I wanted to drink for those pictures <br />recorded on walls and in the bodies around, <br />I wanted to warm up my feet in big slippers. <br />None of the days fit into trousers. <br />Everything was <br /> tailor - made.<br /><br />I.F. Kobjelska<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-toes-on-my-feet-were-blue-and-still-people-made-me-sick/
