They call me
pretty, pretty salesman
Because I
look refined or I sell intricate things
I can’t say
But I am not
involved with the job,
just my
shuffling breaths enjoying their dilemma.
You see,
their eyes, not the kindest to me
like a foul
flute playing some foul silences
But they say
customer is the king
So I keep my
eyes only on the money bag.
Once I open
my madness, they all howl,
like some blood curdling species,
gawking at
each other, ready to walk upon another
as if the earth
is going to die
as if this
is the last chance
to get on
the bus this other galaxy has deported.
That smile I smile then,
That smile I smile then,
right embarrassed
by those buck teeth of mine
looks rather
the most comforting smile
of the whole
stage of nirvana.
I am only a
carrier now
of their
delusions and of some dreams,
Salesman of
life, to some.
I Bring to
my customers
autumn
leaves wrapped in a gold paper
which burns
as soon as they unwrap.
Still my customers
are happy
because they
do what they do- pay
and I do
what I do- cash
or maybe
because I am pretty or
because customer
is the king.
3 comments:
They'll jeer at anyone who has nothing to offer to them, snarl and if given a chance, eat em up.
But you don't stop being a salesman, with them, or without them, for it keeps you amused. They'll pay for anything that shines, for they know nothing about the worth of lives.
Cheers,
Blasphemous Aesthete
Ahh, you got it all correct!
This is great, you really brought it to life..
Post a Comment