Brushes of thoughts
and
sculptures of pain
there's
dreams of the living
beside
that old mark in your brain
I got
palms humid like dying summer diving into yellow pages , raiding and raping, looking for ochre traces
while yours tremble
poring over nicely cut overtures of sound.
Recalling history to disgust is an art of our living.
That we do before it rains
and we choose our way into the mud.
You close your eyes and sing and slip.
I dig too deep and drown and sink.
We love the smell of sewage as clean as the holy water
they give you at altars of peace.
We disconnect on every spaces and love at the impossible. "Charaiveti, charaiveti" till we live and forgive. So before arctic nights, we sing " if you desire healing, fall ill, fall ill..." like the tortoise. Scared smiles and weak pants. Living long. Secure under the daylight of the eclipse.