Pablo Neruda - Walking Around

I was first introduced to this poem, spoken by Samuel L. Jackson, on the soundtrack to the delightful film Il Postino. Works like this were inspiring to me as a youngster, exploring how to use my voice in words.

Walking Around

It happens that I am tired of being a man.

It happens that I go into tailor shops and the movies all shriveled up,
 impenetrable, like a felt swan navigating on a water of origin and ash.

The smell of barbershops makes me sob out loud.

I want nothing but the repose either of stones or of wool.

I want to see no more establishments
 no more gardens
 nor merchandise
 nor glasses
 nor elevators.

It happens that I am tired of my feet
 and my nails
 and my hair
 and my shadow.

It happens that I am tired of being a man.

Just the same it would be delicious to
 scare a notary with a cut lily or
 knock a nun stone dead with one blow of an ear.
It would be beautiful
 to go through the streets with a green knife
 shouting until I died of cold.

I do not want to go on being a root in the dark:
 stretched out,
 shivering with dreams,
 in the wet tripe of the earth–
 soaking it up and
 eating every day.

I do not want to be the inheritor of so many misfortunes.

I do not want to continue as a root and
 as a tomb
 as a solitary tunnel
 as a cellar
 full of corpses,
  stiff with cold,
  dying with pain.

For this reason:
 Monday burns like oil at the sight of me arriving with my jail-face.
And it howls in passing like a wounded wheel.
And its footsteps towards nightfall are filled with hot blood.
And it shoves me along to certain corners
 to certain damp houses
 to hospitals where the bones come out of the windows
 to certain cobbler’s shops smelling of vinegar
 to streets horrendous as crevices.

There are birds the colour of sulphur
 and horrible intestines hanging from the doors of the houses which I hate.
There are forgotten sets of teeth in a coffee-pot.
There are mirrors
 which should have wept with shame and horror.
There are umbrellas all over the place
 and poisons and

I stride along
 with calm
 with eyes
 with shoes
 with fury
 with forgetfulness.

I pass:
 I cross offices and stores full of orthopedic appliances
  and courtyards hung with clothes on
   and shirts
    which weep slow dirty tears.