This is Y

I breathe pictures Murakami wise

Lost in some different part of town as always not involved in whatever is happening at home, I live in question marks. Two moons invading the stark sky, because after dark it’s to late to make up your mind. And that is when you need to hide. Hide from the intellectuals whom drill through books that make my hands hurt, from the different angles everyone wants to make you see even if they don’t make sense, from the staggering neophyte you fear of becoming. Be gone all doubts, this is morphology at its dawn again. I exist through words and the pictures they transcend, because no perfect sight fights the streaming of my lips and tongue. Longing for some time to come that no wrong picture flees into my mind and the neon lights will blind me. And the night will make me ride upon the road of sunlit hives again. Swarming in streets no one sees because we’re busy making stars again. And again, and again. And again the sun goes down in a different part of town, now. Now the brightest lights fill my eyes with madness. Sanskrit lips rain down and make a mess out of the poems that were told along the ages. Corrupted western culture, no place for Arbus made mongrels, only the beauty no beasts among us. Burger is Flemish for citizen so it most be the most democratic food, but forced upon feeble foreigners it’s dictating standards. Warhol fooled us.

I try to spit my pictures Ginsberg wise,

adapting everything not belonging to my culture and making it my own. Roaming the city streets, looking for an angry fix of poetry in bars that were supposed to be the home of some brother to our most famous writer who died because he forgot to be himself and couldn’t stand it. I give birth to would be jazz and contemplate anxiety. I spit as long as I can breathe and live, as if dying would be giving in. Spinning round in circles looking for things I could say or do. But I’ve never answered to myself, I won’t be answering you. Rather than settling I settle in moving ground. Road ahead, the earth is round, bound to move I grasp the opportunity to be myself. And covered in dirt I smile.

I’ve tried comparing, but it didn’t work.
I’ve painted words and phrases. Discovered days and days where time
was not present. Descending in maturity, letting things be. But I know the reading child in me can’t disappear. Dear old me. Seeing grey and wrinkles on a young and stubborn face covered in paper. Hating later, because later can’t make it now and the things that need be done are wrong when future is about to be sung through the lips of movement. About to learn something, failing to comprehend. Again descending in despair no one can ever possibly mend. I war with books and things I’ve written. Pity for the madman whom fulfilled his lifelong dream. Screaming ” I’m no slave of yours!” Grow up man. Read a book.
Open doors and look again at what you’ve read and written.

And despite the fact that I don’t know why, rejoice
by sitting down in a chair, living large in a world where

you decide the distance.





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This entry was posted on December 3, 2013 by .


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