Sales Time Poem by George Tzouvaras

I learn to use words as they hint me

In the show window a shinny doll
In the show window a doll in low price
I run, pick up my few things,
with a suitcase in my hand
try to fly.
Next show window
a gentleman in low price
dying housewives run to catch up the opportunity
sun is burning them, but they push each other to grab what they can.
Perspiration, mephitis,
Despair’s mephitis
a slap in my flight try
I run with a suitcase in my hand
try to fly.
In the show windows souls in low price
In the show windows lives in low price
In the show windows truths in low price
How much it cost?
How much it cost to carry yourself?
How much it cost your sellout?
How much it cost my sell out?
Huge temptation
Price is good
Shall I stay or shall I go?
I run with a suitcase in my hand
try to fly.
I am hiding for a while in those nightly show windows
Dolls male and female in upset price
Inexhaustible stocks
I touch for a while the plastic of their skin
It seems to me they are real!
The exhibits in the show windows they tear
The exhibits in the show windows they die
The exhibits in the show windows they live
Is it true? Is that you want?
I run with a suitcase in my hand
try to fly.
With wild instincts of revenge
I melt my silence,
With wild eyes full of desire
I melt my vision
With yellow fingers by nicotine
I make my wings.
Does anyone remember how much it cost?
Does anyone remember how much it cost
to sell your soul?
Solitude. Dark. Shadows moving deathlike
Exhibits walk in the dark
Exhibits baptize dark as light
this light becomes their price.
I run with a suitcase in my hand
try to fly.
In the desert land I am,
I need the rest baby,
But your body is by plastic
like your soul,
but the air in here is suffocating
like your love,
but the souls in here got sold out
and the show goes on.
Agony of the last rattle before life flies,
a spasm like a last orgasm,
I run with a suitcase in my hand
try to throw away….this show window by me,
cause exhibits don’t live,
cause you cant live as an exhibit,
cause exhibition in a sales time
its not a discount….its a fall,
a deafening fall like the non-existence of your soul
like a baby who was just murdered
in the second month of gestation,
like your warm blood which spills around
in my leaky shoes
like a howl of despair
of an exhibit who just sold its soul to devil.
I run with a suitcase in my hand
trying to throw away every human sign

They learn to use words the way I hint them.