The butter

Half a bar of butter in the mouth.

The waterglass full on the counter

next to the pans and pots.

I inhale the dust from the floor.

One ought to clean up sometimes

but only if they can't find excuses not to

which is rather impossible, I reckon.

The fan is standing behind me

placed on a strategical point.

A family across this tight strip of street

they are having lunch

right behind their lace curtains.

-

Immobile in my underwear

sweat is dripping from behind my knees.

Tongue buried in fat voice can't come up.

There is smoke of majestic statements

because they burn when they're spoken.

It would be good to take a turn at last

but only if they can't stand it anymore

which I doubt, since the sweet nausea

of immurement is ravishing.

Every sound hitting the wall avows

the waste of all this.

-

Half a bar of butter in the mouth.

I'll do my best to take it down

while sipping from the waterglass

that's standing full on the counter.

Soon I will be out of consciousness.