The state of being

The state of being

A Poem by Etienne Anderson

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Skinny, long face, big expressive eyes and nice hair. Smart and someone I can talk with about stuff. That's how I'd define my type.

It's not gonna happen, we're both in search of someone who can fill these needs. we probably could cover those emotional and physical necessities but never will be with one another, it'll always be in some other place, if we're successful of course or even only half supplied.

When we have the bourgeois privilege of speaking more than one language, we have the capacity of covering our nervousness, expressing what we think or feel without feeling so exposed.
I'm doing this right now am I?
Is that cowardice? Betrayal of my blood? Perhaps yes. Or maybe turns out we are more skilled to express this way because there's more technique than we lot could had when using our blood to write.
Maybe it's both of them.

Right now you're nowhere within my reach. Not that I'd get grip of you anyway.

A lot of people don't like rainy days, they say they're gloomy. I think they're reflective and sincere. It is in this type of weather when all the rubbish comes to the surface; the smell of sweat, deception and disappointment; the rotten taste of things.

In the tube one can see the face of the everyday routine.

The urban heart is like the asphalt that covers the city.
But still one can see it, specially there, one can see for a few moments the expressiveness written on the skin because nobody expects to be observed and discovered, and when they realise someone has been a bit of a peeping Tom, the asphalt reaches their face and hide, like some modest Eva.

There's something very lively on death, the smell of gas and behind the smoke, dozens of faces appear. The lonely quiet moment in the apocalyptic yet common murmurs urbanity serves as the three meals per day.

Opaque colours that shine better at night, because in the dark luminosity is when city has her morning coffee and is ready to blast.

And maybe, maybe, is then when I'll find you although not as I would like it.

© 2013 Etienne Anderson

Author's Note

Etienne Anderson
Old piece, but fit for opening a new page and actually decide to do some proper writing. I don't know.

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Added on May 8, 2013
Last Updated on May 8, 2013
Tags: rant, beauty, love, senses, desire, routine, urban, postmodern, prose


Etienne Anderson
Etienne Anderson


“The absence of the will to live is, alas, not sufficient to make one want to die.” ― Michel Houellebecq more..