 |
 |
Coachmens
I see you in your little boxes. You have a fatty face, fatty hands. Surely you are fatty elsewhere too. You never move, your movements are limited to turning the key in the door. You move your feet up and down, accelerate, friction, brakes. Your hands wrapped around a round object, which you turn nervously while twisting your neck backwards to get out of the parking space you helplessly found last night and that you are abandoning with, regret this morning.
Some times your hands go up towards your face, to dig something out from your nostrils, thinking you are not observed, being inside.
You insert yourselves into this flux of other hostile coexistent, being hysterical with your other similar that’s in front of you and with the other pressing behind you. You are nervous.
You will be nervous all day long.
I go around you happily. You don’t see me, until you will be tearing your hears out with your hands watching my bloody body. You will not think “oh my god what have I done?” You will think “oh my god what’s happened to me, why did it have to happen to me?”
The sirens will not do the rest.
|
|
