jaffa - an ode

ever concentrated
up on the sentry tower stands the preacherman.
painfully eye-ing
the cases neatly beside him
a violin.
making impression-conversation to the passers
(fallers)
for the ways near him are all downwards
and the roling squeak can be heard.
the paved roads are steep
and people are climbing them
the look of four strings.
When we passed the man,
standing on a high tower in a fortified town by the sea,
he was just reciting a strangers illnesses,
palmfull of scratches,
and backaches from countless crosses
stolen from endless, useless crusades.
I had to sit.

ever painful
up on the sentry tower stands the observer.
the people passing down
and up,
not noticing him.
he is speaking to them
but they only hear his questions.
Then night fell on the fortified harbour,
and the people started rushing down
in a bright ray, next to the cannon, the great cuncuror, the
smell of fish from the harbour downstairs
rotting,
the people
from underneath.
Then we passed the man and threw a coin into one of the cases,
and the older people
threw without bending their backs,
but the man never even bothered to look -
an army was approaching the fortified harbour,
a FIRE-wedding melody from down the hall
was gradually blurring him out
as we walked away,
they dragged me away.

ever faitful
up on the towns sentry towers stands the prophet
painfully eye-ing
the cases neatly beside him
the wood becomes weary.
and the wedding march was closing up
surrounded by shinier cannons, brighter rays, greater cuncurors
and bigger fish.
Then, the soldiers surrounding the march
hit the mighty dark rocks of the shore and the bottom of the sea
that they put there,
the guards on the towers,
and one of their legs fell off.
But they weren't sad and kept standing, kept their spirit,
until their other leg snapped off.
The rocks then sighed.
The cannons molded and bended
And the cuncurors ran on the sea, hollering
AND the fish stunk.
-and the woods became weary-

in a fortified harbour town that is divided like a bookshelf
we see our own society.
and I wanted to ask them all why it is so,
that no one can smell the fish from the harbour down,
and that the fish are growing metal scales under the pink skin.
and that people keep floating up
and that anchors keep floating up
and that messengers keep floating up
and that packages filled with supplies tied and tugged keep floating up.
and why is it that fish splatter against the walls in defence,
(and the thick goo..)
And I wanted to point out to all of them, that
-we are all born fish,
-the fish are the foundations of the sentries and the town walls
(their little greenwet feet moving quickly).
And that the artists are a part of this whole fortified harbour town
structure
and they live in betwen the harbour and the walls,
inside, deep in their ancient narrow little streets.
Deep inside.

And the man,
the sentry
watching carefully the fishes
(one of them)
keeps on despite the growing wedding march.
and we could see him at the end of the tunnel while walking away-
we were walking towards the wedding,
and the man,
the sentry guard, the prophet, the preacher, the observer, the
Tourist.
Kept on.

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