Tuesday, March 29, 2005

My Generation

after Les Vieux by Jacques Brel

They can't speak, or if they do it's only Morse-coding with their eyelids.

Even if they are rich, they are really all poor. They can't be fooled. They have to share one liver between two.

At home it smells like apples, Ajax, Derrida and the lost bong. If they live in Paris, they really live in Sydney, when they have lived too long.

The party's over, their voice cracks when recounting it.

They've come through Hell, there's a moist eye for that too.

And if they tremble a little, it's just from seeing their money grow.

Their books sleep, their pianos are closed, the kitten dies, Sunday's daiquiri can no longer make them sing.

Their world is just too small - they hover between the bed and the window- between the bed and the T.V. - and finally, between the bed and the bed.

If they still get out, arm in squeaky arm, it's to follow the sun or to bury someone with a maudlin thought.

They kill time with a little cry, and forget a whole hour has passed. But the clock still hums.

They do not die, they fall asleep one day and just sleep too long.

Take their hand, they are afraid of losing themselves, a cup of tea prickles under the sprinkler on the lawn.

One of them always survives, for better or worse. But who cares? The survivor has re-curtained.

Yes, I saw her in the rain. She was crossing the street in front of me, excusing herself for not being further along; girdled with a bomb that still hums a showy tune:

"Yes! No! I'm waiting!"

"Yes! No! I'm waiting!"



We're all waiting.

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