Anita Nahal
Pour yourself some scotch. Pour yourself some water. Pour yourself some erudition from the Tree of Souls, and I’ll listen. Pour yourself some ire, some envy, some conceit, and I’ll stare at you enough to freeze you down. Don’t be fooled by my Prada tailored suit. The devil’s been walking at the edges and I’m quite industrial in my taste and interpretive of your musings, including me. Drawings resting against raw, textured, unprepared walls set the tenor and windows as tall as in airplane hangars alight the ambience. So, please, pour yourself some scotch. Pour yourself some water. Pour yourself some erudition from the Tree of Souls, and I’ll listen. Pour yourself some ire, some envy, some conceit, and I’ll stare at you enough to freeze you down. I’m a nyctophile and aurora. I’m the stream of consciousness and I often sit in vacant chairs in banter with uncountable, unbeknownst minted ideas. I ain’t got much time. No one got much time. I ain’t unique. No one’s unique. I ain’t above board. No one’s above board. Yet this is as interpretive as I can get that when the song returns dragging its overused legs, I’m the one running out hugging and apologizing for the marching orders one too many times. I move around, rummaging for some salve, before finding my way back to the main. Friends become acquaintances and the latter just stop being anything. The pandemic could be blamed if you wish, though blaming an illness makes not for a genuine white lie when I still want to be the light’s blessing. So, please, pour yourself some scotch. Pour yourself some erudition from the Tree of Souls, and I’ll listen. Pour yourself some ire, some envy, some conceit, and I’ll stare at you enough to freeze you down.
