reading

The blurb said the story was about patricide. I chose the skin of the most depraved, Dmitri, to get into. But nothing happens, there is too much talk.
And then i can feel the dark creeping all around my room. It is about to rain. Of course, it is. The day before I had forgotten my umbrella at the cyber cafe and never got it back.
Outside, she yells and yells till I get used to her voice. It is a language I don't understand. "She is swearing at her husband," I think.
But then, Dmitri hasn't visited the book in pages and so my mind wanders.
Please rain. This smell of want is too much to bear.
The yelling continues. "Am sure her husband hits her," I think.
The phone-call.
He does not hit me. So is something wrong with me that I complain so much?
The voice at the other end of the line is dissolving in the rain, the yelling and Dmitri.
Uh.. no.
You are not listening.
"I am too many people at this moment. You are me. But I'd rather be Dmitri." Thank god, I can't hear myself thinking in the rain.

Poem

I will not write a poem.
Believe me, this is prose.
But it is abrupt. And before I can say this in its entreity my thoughts like waves crash and disintegrate. So all I have is foam.
Foam is poetry. It is what you want it to be.
White, transparent, naked.
Don't the feel-good-shows ask you to feel proud of your body?
So why do you wince at the word naked?
You make me laugh.
In a crowded bus when the world strips you naked it is tough to feel that proud allright.
Please don't prod into it hard.
It hurts.
And then in the dark I can hear the paper weeping.
What do I tell it?
I suggest abortion.
Kill it.
Torn and tattered she lies in the bin.
The poem or the prose..
Nobody knows. And I wont tell.