Upon the Saturday

The week gone by was filled with

scurrying philosophies and rats running the maze;

fly-swatting in my apartment after work to the flashing of kitchen lights.

It was crammed with the sound of water bottles

crunching and cheese being sliced to the

the view of the moonlight through 10-foot blinds falling from my ceiling.

It was nestled with the reading of books

and the way Bob Dylan croons

whilst I cry over Kafka novels in the evening with three-day-old pasta.

And I watch the black and white films on the television,

turn off all the lights and stare into the screen

thinking how bad for my eyes this already is and how bad they already are.

The tender night kissed into the black sky

knowing I’ll fall asleep without seeing the time.

I fold my legs atop the chair and decide to get up if to only

shut the door and lock the heat in.

ii

I woke up with Kafka on my face and Burroughs in my brain

and it must yes, it must be Saturday.

The dawn had not yet broken, but it would split eventually.

The pelting of rain, the sound and the fury.

There was no sun to rise as I washed the heat from my eyes,

the blood from my teeth, the ache from my ears with a ringing

ringing,

ringing…

it never stops.

The bleat of the grey clouds above head made me think of the child

who went to Amerika seeking out a new life to find

nothing but clowns and vagrants,

rats of the city.

I open the window on to nothing, stairs that go nowhere as if

four architects worked on my mind together and never

once

spoke to each other.