Clouds of lies

All the dreams are gone now – river of pain,
and I haven’t slept in three days,
thinking of all the lost loves
as the bony fingers of my brain search for tenderness
in this empty room,
I am half insane now, looking at the paintings on the wall,
resembling dried autumn leaves,
and I reshape my view upon the world, gazing through
the window and I see stupidity, I see predictability,
I can sense out there the newspaper man selling headlines
and obscurity, cops young enough to be my nephews write
tickets to eighteen year old girls with new cars, faces blank
as milk in bathtub; and all the trumpets proclaim the arrival
of the new president, but who the hell cares? My fridge is empty
and silent as a tomb, the empty beer bottles lie on the floor with
all their uselessness and the great yellow sun pour over my face
its warmness,
and I think that not all is lost now, maybe there is some spark, some 
smoldering coal – the beginning of the future’s inferno,
but this is so far away,
I wave my hand, my strong and good hand,
and I enter the bedroom where this plump damsel sleeps,
I watch the lump of sheets that she is and listen to the gentle snoring,
and I close the door quietly,
I sit in the chair and light cheap cigar,
I watch the room steaming with smoke, dizzy with fumes,
the gray clouds rise up to the ceiling and this day continue
as the old angel with the tired wings
smile.