A narration of the seven year cycle

by

nga Genc Salihu

for Charles Bukowski, with care.

At six, I started climbing

Trees; I had discovered dreams

And was hiding pictures in

Broken walls to see if they’d

Last the winter, and test my

Memory. I wanted a guitar,

Not a tennis racket, so I was

Frequently at the mirror,

Screaming with joy and

Patience. I could speak, so

I learned to read and read

Aloud old, dirty books with

My back against the TV set

To be the anchorman and

The scientist. I had a friend

Called Silence that fed me feta

Cheese and crisps as I was

Guarding those primeval,

Priceless hours. I had a house

Called Music where I’d sit

With her to wait for death

To ooze from the speakers. At

Twelve, I had a harmonica.

At thirteen, I was singing to

My dad’s friends, sometimes

For recognition, then at times

To please him. I was crying a lot,

But that was because I was a

Coward. I never cried again after,

At fifteen, I got a glimpse of

Fame and fellow man’s greed

And worshiping contempt. I

Was a hyper-active, arrogant,

Annoying prodigy with a lean

Tongue that, at the first few sights

Of insincerity, never ceased cursing

And being a little brave, too. At

Seventeen, I started to smoke and

Play, so by twenty I had come out

Of heroin with having written

A lot of poems and songs.

At twenty one, I met her, this

Beautiful, tall, deep, dark and

Complex young woman who

Took me in and lived with me,

Filling me with fear and longing

And teaching me food, tact and

Conversation. She left as I turned 25,

With tact, of course, a long

Dark coat and a few seamless,

Shameless lies. I drank then and

Lied about my passions, and

Got myself an education. On the

Course of those witless, murky

Years, I remembered how to sing

About what mattered in ways that

Didn’t matter much, so I came

Back home to see what dad was

Doing. He, as usual, was full of

Strange hopes and intrusive dreams

He’d mistaken for something elusive

He called ‘future’, so I drank and lied

About my passions and got myself

A crowd to get busted with.

Now, at twenty seven, I’m still

Admittedly drinking a few drops,

I won’t lie. Not even about my

Passions, I can’t. I’m not seeing

Anyone as much as I’ve been known to

And have fallen in love with an

Old friend who likes my poetry.

I don’t talk much… I still can’t get

My head around the flash of

Yielding to the acceptance of

A penetrating probability –

That proverbial seven year cycle.


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One Response to “A narration of the seven year cycle”

  1. yankee Says:

    modernisht bukur

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