He's Dead Today

He's Dead Today

another of my poems


He's Dead Today



I wake up and
read about it in the journal,
in the deads section
of today;
I rise from the bed
and drink water,
the fridge is smelling bad
in the insides
and makes me think of fish factories

I want
nor clothes nor water on me right now
but I put trousers
anyway,
but not a shirt
or shoes
and I go out;
the beach is empty and
foggy with dirty fog

The tide is ebbing
and I know it
because it puts to sleep
crap and shit in
the shore and the breakwaters sides,
it is beautiful
as beauty things are
like the smell of rain, or the smell of petrol,
or the word spool

when I'm sinking
my feet in the watery sand
the blond fellow whose parents are Nazis
comes
and do the same,
his feet get greasy and shitty too
I remember
how I used to make him cry
and I say: Salinger died today

The journal just gave him
a little line,
on Sunday he’ll have a whole page
and pictures and
murder complots
Are his wives happy? Did they cry already?
I don't know
and the blond fellow whose parents are Nazis
says: I liked Joyce better

I walk away and leave him sink
in the putridness
alone
and climb a sand mountain that trembles,
it is a sealion
dead too joyce too
yes I like him better
Salinger too
and I think now his smell's disappeared