The person on business from Porlock
knocks on my door
and am I still ploughing on my best
poems ever to be.
Still moulding like a clay sculptor
the words to become the God's final words.
My cat snoozes over my red espadrilles,
he perhaps dreams about those poems:
a dreamscape of moons plenty
of goldfish and fireflies.
My red espadrilles might as well dream
on toes with faces of egyptian cats.
The person on business from Porlock
knocks on the buzzer like hell,
and I'm still plodding along to turn
Venetian salizades, Parisian passages,
Sevillian callejas and English lanes
into the right path to the perfect elegy.
The crickets trill outside.
A breeze like the giggles of witches
prancing over bucking bulls.
My brindle cat now leaps
onto a pile of books to be read...
The person on business from Porlock
knocks and knocks and knocks
at early morning.
I don't want to open the door.
I don't want to sell my soul.
I only intend to keep blooming
as ruderals in a landfill,
to keep toiling through the furrows of my brain
and digging into the last neuronal light,
my last elegy to come.
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