9.30 AM Murmur

They locked themselves in their so-called home,

these moronic human beings

Waving their fat leather wallets with pride,

even though they’re someone else’s

Shiny cars are now their precious bodies

Infuriating, intimidating,

giving a twelve-storey middle finger to the poor

 

“Get lost, kid,

there’s no such thing as meum et tuum,” they say

Lying clowns

 

And there you are, standing

and thinking

and wanting to rent a hotel room

and wanting to wipe their faces off with a sandpaper

and wanting to clap your hands in your favorite rhythm

at the same wasted time

 

Come here, sweet fellow

Bring a glockenspiel and throw your f***s into a trash can

 

Before the two cups of coffee on my round table

get colder than Alaska