Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.
They know nothing of the living.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
“Where does this blooming come from?”
From time.
“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)
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.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
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”
You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
“Where does this blooming come from?”
From time.
“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.
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.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
They know nothing of the living.
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.
“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”
from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains
Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?
You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.
everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.
it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.
One moment of silence.
You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
“Where does this blooming come from?”
From time.
“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE 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.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.
from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains
You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
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”
One moment of silence.
They know nothing of the living.
Arid on his crown, he picks up the brush with his guitar fingers. Blue now, the mane keeps growing, or could it be the skin drying out?
everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.
it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.
“Where does this blooming come from?”
From time.
“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
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.
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.
“Where does this blooming come from?”
From time.
“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE 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.
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.
They know nothing of the living.
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains
You pay them in memory, unstable currency of each and every day.
Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.
Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.
CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.
although
YOU CAN LOSE IT
CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.
a type of speech
MINUTIAE
There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.
“Where does this blooming come from?”
From time.
“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.
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.
returning to the garden in the evening
shouting ready or not
and waiting twenty years to say
olly olly oxen free
The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.
Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.
from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.
—