It is true what they say
when a door closes, a window opens
or is it the other way around?
It doesn't seem to matter, does it?
It could be both doors or both windows
of a room, of a bar, of a house,
of an apartment, of a car, of a job,
of a grant, of a break
of a father, of a mentor
of a teacher, of a woman,
of a japanese woman, of a boy,
of a boy from malabon, of a girl in LA,
of a singer, of a dancer, of an artist,
of a poet, of a massuer, of a fortune-teller
of a seamstress, of a shop, of a club,
of a party, of an adventure, of home
It is true and while it is true
it is a mediocre truth
No divine incantation for this one
No heavenly vision of levitating
beauty commercials with giant dove wings
No baroque scene worthy of a painting
No thick books with thin pages record it
No, this truth is ordinary:
the transit from one room to another
the kitchen to the bedroom
where it equally reeks of discontent
It is the tedious journey
from the apartment to the office
where the scenery never changes
the uneventful crossing
from one walled fortress to another
Did i mention these were ruins?
How utterly mundane.
Yes, they are all the same,
the same brick, the same rock,
or the same old wood that's lost
its life a millenia ago
and since then, for a millenia
has laid benign and quiet,
too quiet.
Sparrows drop by on these
squared branches and leave
without opening their beaks,
not even to sigh
They land because it is still,
because it is empty
no harm will ever come to them
because nothing ever happens there
yes, nothing ever happens here
So I open the gate and close it
I open the door and close it
I open another door and close it
or I close a door and open another
and close it and open another
or open the same door, it doesn't matter-
don't forget the windows.
Either way, the walls never change
they can be concrete painted white
a stare down I could never win without
squeezing a tear or a scream that only
the white could hear but never absorb
they can be wood too and painted a violent red
a swollen red, infected
or not so it is gray like every single day
in this city: the sun is out, it is gray
when it hides, it is gray, at night it is gray
the fucking moon is gray
I ask it: where is everyone?
where is everyone?
hello, where is everyone?
My friends have all gone
while they are away, they are gone
while they are gone, they are away
I cannot feel them anymore
like I used too, they are somewhere
getting high, getting fucked in the ass
all night by the universe
perhaps they're going through
the same mum doors
the doors that watch me go by
to my death
and to another
and another
They are out there hiding
from their own lives
from their own deaths,
from mine, from me
How many times do I have to die?
How many times do I have to attend
my own execution, alone?
And will I ever go to hell?
Not this one, but that hell
where the devil lives because I want him
I want the devil
I want him to tempt me again,
to tease me again and screw me over,
I want the devil in the kitchen,
in my room tied to the bed,
I want the devil's kiss in the shower,
I want him under the kiosk on the beach,
in the elevator, on the rooftop,
at the fire exit, at the supermarket,
on the train, in the office
twenty-four desks away from mine,
I want the devil to propose
and then disappear,
to fuck with me and disappear
to love me and disappear
or pretend to love me
and then disappear- for real
It won't take much of his time
Is he too busy?
Is he too goddamn busy?
then give me a lowly demon then
but the dirtiest one,
or a plain horny brute
or one that resembles
too much of the divine,
or the fool,
any demon hell can do without
Mine are all gone,
I killed them all, ripped their wings
from their black smelly backs
and skewered them with my pride
yes I was that brave
I was ruthlessly righteous
I've banished all the ghosts too
from my room, from my sheets,
from my skin, from my skull
and now all that's left is my own
endlessly ephemeral ghoul
and the ceiling staying up there
and the floor that hasn't moved
since god-knows-when
and these walls walls walls
without a stain on them
without a face on them
without a trace of memory on them
just doors and their right angles
that always seem wrong
doors where nobody else enters
doors that only echo with my own hellos
and goodbyes. I want my demons back
through those doors
I want my ghosts to return and slip through them
If not, send me new ones,
young souls to rouse in anger forever,
new hearts to kill so they can haunt me after:
a man, a woman, a boy, a girl, a demon, a ghost
give me anything:
open the door, pull me out
or get in and lock the door behind you.
Don't forget the windows.
