They sleep on the docks
And piss into the harbour
But they will not embark
(Except maybe the Supetar ferry)
Too many good movies
And bad ways of spending one’s time
And the pernicious influence of literature
Boy they will break our bones
Down there in some park
This tenderness is provocative
They live on the hands of the harbour
Extended in flight
My friends
Hardened dreamers
Fogging other people’s brains and buying a smoke
Incomplete students finished children
Girls past their prime
I watch them in the morning as they go to bed
Then the coffee ritual
And the silence as sticky and talkative as Turkish delight
They happen in certain intervals
Occur every day
In uncertain circumstances
Like a call at midnight (for help)
They are angels who lift me up and put me down
On a trapeze
Dwarves who drag me into inns
Winged fishes idlers clowns
My incurable tendency
From a collector’s point of view
Perverse