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,
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
I’m truly sick and conversations have started,
If I could just chew the bones of silence – but machines,
have become my sirens, insect
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