Notomesfotos

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? 

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

They know nothing of the living.

Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? 

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

They know nothing of the living.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

[it’s real when they say it]

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? 

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

They know nothing of the living.

Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.

[it’s real when they say it]

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

You’ll remember white—for example—Mari’s favorite.
As for Lalo, the glimpse of tiny flowers.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? 

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

They know nothing of the living.

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? 

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? 

Horses
bulls and horses
the slaying lance.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

They know nothing of the living.