What will I shout about when I become old and crazy?
Will I complain about the weather or about the government?
To whom will I yell:
Will I lose my calm when Queen Kate won’t reply to my WhatsApp messages?
Will I elongate the last syllable of the last word in every senteeeeence?
To whom will I demand:
"BRING ME SUPPER!"?
Will I use whimsical linguistic turns? Eccentric metaphors? Daring tropes?
Or will I simply bellow utter nonsense?
To whom will I protest that
“THESE UNDERPANTS ARE HURTING MEEEEE!”?
Will I use disjointed phrases? Backward sentences? Semantics without syntax?
Will I lose my breath howling:
“15 door from idiot that again mention don’t!
Don’t mention that idiot from door 15!
AGAIN MENTION DON’T! SHUT UP!”
Will I call women whores when I walk past them in the street?
Will I spit on children? Will I terrorise the tourists?
What government will I complain about?
Whose mother and whose father will I insult?
“YOUR FATHER! AND YOUR MOTHER!”
Will I laugh? Will I cry? Will I sulk? Will I protest:
“I AM SLEEPY AGAIN!”
Will I shout shirtless – shirtless! - in the middle of the street appealing
for the man who never knew I loved him?
Or will I yell at the computer in an internet café and answer myself back
with the voice of a 7 year old ventriloquist dummy?
Will I apologize for the inconvenience?
Or will I vociferate from the flat next to a pension in Pigalle
with the TV on at full volume in a mix of Basque and French?
"Alde egin! Je t'aime, moi non plus. Zoaz pikutara, MERDE!”
Will I hold endless discussions with my late father?
Or with my older brother who now lives in Beijing?
Or with my boss from 2004? Or… with God?
Will I remember my nights of passion with the extra-terrestrials from what planet?
Or will I simply repeat:
“BREXIT is BREXIT is BREXIT is BREXIT is BREXIT!”
Will I steal food from pigeons?
Will I get into fights with the foxes in the street?
Will I climb up to the tallest belfry, fully naked,
after having painted my body and the furniture all white?
“Painted white! WHITE! Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!
Will I masturbate like a chimpanzee in heat knowing that I will never come anyway?
Or will I jump out, still naked, from a psychiatric ambulance
as it rushes through Shaftesbury Avenue
with its loudest sirens and its brightest lights?
What will I scream about when I get old and lose my mind
and remember that I forgot my medication…
...and remember that no one ever loved me?
And that I am alone. Alone! Alone! Alone! Alone! ALONE!
Just like you. Like you. And you. And you. AND YOU. AND YOU!
“SHUT UP! IT’S HOT!
SO FUCKING HOT!”
Ernesto Sarezale is the pen name of Basque cognitive scientist based in London. Writer, multimedia performer, erotic award winning poet, film maker and sporadic event promoter, he is well known for his "boylesque poetry" act, for his one-man show “In the name of the flesh” (also the name of his most recent poetry collection) and for promoting renowned erotic literary soiree, “Velvet Tongue”.
Check out Ernesto's website