FINDING WARMTH AGAIN? (IT’S JUST COLD POETRY, BUT REALISTIC)

FINDING WARMTH AGAIN? (IT’S JUST COLD POETRY, BUT REALISTIC)

by Francis Berti

My bottle is empty, very empty and the next one is waiting for the same fate, it’s over there. The glass is me, the bottle is me. My box of cigarettes empties between my fingers. They light up by themselves, one after the other. They pile up in what will be my own ashes. And I will be complete. There are no drugs, there is no bullet waiting to escape to an empty bone that the darkness will receive some light. Before that, the roof will fall down, full of water and rotten, or the floor will sink, dying of holes that look at the immense paintings that nobody understands why they are piled up in a kitchen where no one cooks. Maybe the candle that I light every day asking the gods that I don’t even believe will bless my three loves that allow me to write what I don’t know the reason for, but I can’t stop doing it, until the alcohol, through some spark from a lighter hurt by scratching, lights it. And the fire gives it the final heat. Arriving at the time that I seek to stop playing and be someone in truth.