27.02.25

What a film, 

behind the glass,

like porcelain dolls, frantic cars,

And such impalpable beauty,

Such unnerving serenity,

As if a single breath would shatter

these exhibitions.

And what a museum, I think,

When a single whisper, echoing deep

like drums,

Are heard only be mechanical insects 

ticking their arms.

The porcelain dolls twist away,

Those capable of substance sweeping past on the marble floor,

Blood fabric benches hosting inconclusive

breathing,

Ears cemented and not at all painful.

And how would I write to such battery hearts,

Or so I think.

It does not make a single difference

A tap on the glass startles no one,

except the security man prowling around unofficial corners.

It must come from disregard,

from mechanical apathy, 

synthetic forgetfulness,

and you tell me this now,

that tactile fabricaitons

are discarded like sewing needles,

that these smiles are chemical,

and what are stopping desires from being 

gravitational pulls

with the infatuation of a lovesick bird.

And how amusing it is to be out here,

How entertaining it is to be real.

And how mindless it is to suspect sincerity,

how selfish it is to qualify oneself as 

tangible

And not just an unwelcoming illustration

inarticulate in a gallery