It’s only a few times
when you stay so close to the ideal
that its shadow protects you
from the sunburns of real life:
in school when you learn about Socrates,
or Napoleon,
or during the first furtive kiss,
or during the first night spent out
under the honey rain of city lights,
or when you watched on tv
the first landing on Moon,
or after you made love
for the first time.
Then you have to pay back
for once being seen
in the company of the ideal,
so close to it
that you almost touched it.
You seated in the front seats row
of a morning show
that has no reruns
for quite some time.
Freed up from ideal,
you’re chained to banality,
only for the rest of your life:
please you moronic boss
between the 9 and 5 daily corporate rape,
kissing good night
your silly, overweight woman,
and your dumb kids,
chained in front of a computer display,
opaque to your love,
tripping over in your house
from things that you don’t need,
letting the world powerful bastards
messing up with your mind,
cleaning it thoroughly with jets of lies,
from their powerful propaganda guns,
laying down on the couch,
so far away from the ideal
that you cannot see it anymore,
even with your powerful lenses
built with the latest technology.
You paid your tickets,
you had your early fun,
the morning show is over,
there’s one more rerun to come:
your death.
