Song of the torn handkerchief with a bonus bat.

Waving hands is a mean of being there as a cod among salt and a dab on one’s face: gloomy make-up and pretty look cruising on eyes and tears galore.

Waving hands means the future of long ago, as today’s sadness will be remembered as tears go by, disgorging bitterness for years and years in order to build bittersweet ways of being there even if no hands are waving and either even if we’ll go no more a-roving so late into some cold night and that’s a pity, isn’t ’it? …

Waving hands instead or seizing a pale handkerchief, sad white bat under the sky, allows to tear the tears while the handkerchief”s cotton is also torn with desperates tremulations and also while the heart is ripped by thoughts of dried forget-me-not near a curved by years picture of the darlinger one nowadays gone, gone, gone…

Waving hands is like slapping the face of sentimental stupidity: staying alone, crying, tearing innocent cotton, walking to “White hart’pub” and drinking bears, or chewing fried cod because they don’t cook bats event on days of dabbing, if  you see what I mean.

Comments

[Amel Zmerli]

I hang my head and tears are clouding in the sea of shame. They are flowing like sorrow and pain, rolling like stones from the blue mountain, it was a pity, and pity was claimed.
Thanks for this precious poem...
Amel

[M.]

and if Tom Wait's piano's singing its own sadness nearby, tears end up in a flow of sorrow running down to the seas where cods and dabs came from, and then there's nothing more to do than try to count hundreds of tiny grains of sand, one by one, to remember again, till it's time to forget.