Tervasoihtu

It's Autumn and I sit and write poems
whose dullness makes me sink into my miseries.

Sometimes it has worked, now it doesn't.

It's Autumn, my hands feel cold,
where are the palm trees? where's my mum?
I should write more autobiographic poems,
they are my best, I think,
because I'm so great
that I'd kill myself.

All I know, is that I'd like to be an embryo
to float silently in warm amniotic liquid and never again
to listen about residence permits.

But here I am instead, with cold hands,
in this Autumn of blades and blisters,
in this suffocating ocean
of disposable writing.