The lonely rabbit is in cage
He is prepared to die
His little mind is all inflamed
The rabbit has been framed
He knows by who(m) and why
Die, little bunny, die
No need to be enraged
Author: roobit
On the Death of a Mole
His body mutilated by dogs
His black shiny coat is torn open to expose
Flesh underneath
He was an ordinary garden mole
Who tried to take
(No, not his own life)
But a peek at the daylight
At sun and sky
And smell the fragrant flowers
And as he cautiously pushed
His little head from the dark depths below
He was just trapped and killed
Because he might have spoiled the looks
Of a blind woman’s well manicured lawn
Hopeless leaves
Furies
The furies beat their wings in fury
Disastrous wings – as Dreiser said
Believe me since I am not in fury
I am calm
I’ve heard them too
And I am dead
Black Coffee
Black coffee in a red mug
Shot of cognac in a glass
Bloodshot eyes
Insomnia triumphant
House with its walls shattered
Shadows of innocence
Long gone
Inner sense of distance calls
At ports where
Abandoned ships of home
Lay mothballed
Full of irony and old iron
Maidens
Look out
At the garden
Gnome that guards
The Fox
Hole into which
The ha(i)re brained rabbit
Jumped
Through the looking glass
Into which I stare
As I climb those stairs
Downwards while sipping black
Coffee and cognac
On the bank
Just got an Olympus digital camera. It’s a little toy-like instrument of expression — I used to be an ardent film user and even though this tiny computer with a lens appears so needlessly overcomplicated (not merely appears but of course it is, all those cameras became outrageously and unnecessarily complex) the camera is still wonderful to play with.
I am going to pick stars from the sky
And put them all into my woven basket
I’ll take them home to cook a stellar stew
And with your dreams with my celestial spoon
Navigator
Navigator
Once on the back of a rapid stream
I saw a used condom as it floated by
And as the sheath vanished from the scene
Carried by the stream downstream
I yelled into the morning’s mournful fragrant haze
Farewell, unknown would-be baby
And good-bye
Another Try
I am calling your old number once again.
And I don’t have to dial anything.
You’re in my memory where I push buttons.
The damned thing beeps, and beeps, and beeps.
Without end.
Electrons fly. Computers chirp.
Somewhere.
I am shivering expecting a connection.
I am desperate to hear your voice.
The only voice that matters.
One voice among billions of voices
That belong to other humans
But you don’t answer.
There’s no response.
I am staring at my wrinkled, dirty hand.
In lunar light that stingily flows through cracks
Into the moist chamber of my low-cost sepulchre
Dissonance
The sun is still the same
That coward of a sun
Who hides behind its’ name
Who lurks behind grey clouds
While teasing from above
Its’ warmth so insincere
Its’ light so void of love
Its silly, shallow shine
Blinds me as I raise my head
And stare at its face
I force myself to smile
The Sun smiles coyly back
And blinded I look down
And think about my son
And try to keep it cool
And there far away
I know things are the same
Cars, kids and shabby trees
Façades of buildings, some ornate
Their dirty old courtyards
And smell of garbage, rot
Of strangers’ lives long lost
Of cursed unhappy fate
Discarded ice cream wrapper
A pool of urine in the corner
Abandoned doll, its blond head cracked open
(There are no brains inside)
Pigeons, those pesky rats with wings
Through a ground-floor window
An old wrinkled face stares at you
Amidst unneeded things
The window glass is dirty
A napping lazy cat
More trash and bottle caps
A bunch of kids run by
I leisurely walk
I envy them a lot
The sun is still above
Façades, inner courtyards, kids, cars
Discarded ice cream wrappers Discarded discount love
Aged whores and seedy bars
Of the most disreputable fame
It’s all the same but you’re not here
You’d never know that all is still the same
Roobit's Poetry Burrow 