Venterommet

I am on my knees on the grey carpet.

I am drinking leisurely the air of a white fan.

I hold it with my two hands and
say your name through it.

I hear the way my voice sounds
hitting the blades
coming back to me
bouncing in the empty walls
in the Hawaiian plastic dancer
in the empty bottles
distorted like a broken glass
almost like a piece of plastic
singing: “I am not gonna feed you anymore,
I have to count my pearls under the floor,
I ain’t gonna feed you anymore,
I can’t stand your knocking in my door”

I raise my head
and taste the dim light coming
through the window

shades like bars
dancing really slowly with the air

thick
humid
angry air