drawing words

 
poemONtornBOOK-small_e

 

  Comin’ down from crystal palace to an earth strange,

     feeling the feelings of the wind mingle with dry hair

                           and stealing the pores of the ground,

         asphalt everywhere.

3w_mask-small

 

No footsteps I can trace back, only squeletons

unable to breath, unable to laugh, skin so tight.

 

Symbols need empty space ’cause they’re shy,

we rob them the power of their beauty singing

turning everything into context, all meaning.

 

What is important? I have had no focus in days

Who am I? Only in dreams I have lived

What am I doing here, writing on the back of torn

                                        books… ?

 

I’m truly sick and conversations have started,

              If I could just chew the bones of silence – but machines,

machines and their deceiving decent wordsricochet-small

have become my sirens, insect
                                        guides

of a short scattered melody

to the and the an in fucked up

– and here – fucked up – also here.

 

The hands on the chest

     the nail through the wall,

          through the hand,

               into the chest,

                    through the heart,

                         into the wall…

that ricochet is the brain

 

  gashô

pileOFpapers-small_e

About m)◘(x

ni! for now
This entry was posted in drawing, photo, text and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.