The drank their tea, sweetened with the sugary sweat of black Gods in the tropics.
They drunk coffee and became enlightened of their own being and nature.
They did not see, the nature of their cruel consumption.

Great progression

Shifts in the hearts of humanity

Hundreds of years later

We build forts (lives) out of shiny consumemodities and quickly threadbare cloth.
Made by a million Chinese robots.
Faceless and nameless.
The seesaw balance of life rises in the west and sets in the east. Like a nauseating suncycle.
Where ever there is great innovation,
there is great pain.
Even in the brightest light; lingers darkness.
Until time is flipped.
And History repeats.

Tired yet wired.
Running on caffeine, adrenaline and anticipation.
Like a railway forwarder
grinding on rusted tracks making them an orange metallic fairy dust.
Living in a wind of motion snd flying on my own.
And then I see you: a calm tornado of sense and serenity.
You pull me out and woosh! me up into the celestial realms where they sing a song of clarity and purity.
The chaos of my eyes is poured into a stella mixing bowl: processed.
Then drunk out.
As a flower with pink semi-translucent leaves.

She shuffled her feet uncomfortably as glowing cracks of light appeared below her feet.
The veins of light expanded and engulfed the darkness, evaporating the stale, swampy water from her field of unbolted flowers.
A million suns rose and cast their revealing light on the shadows in her mind.
She saw the billions of galaxies surrounding her trapped inside electric graymatter.
Spilling out into sound and vision. To be shared and admired.
She wanted to grow her own oak tree, a mighty one, with branches to offer birds and shimmering gray leaves to kiss the summer and suffice to the winter.
Driving her roots into the soil she noticed it was salted.
So she jumped into the ocean and lay down on her back and became an island with azure fields.
"My bones can be a house for the fish" was her final sigh as she gazed into past ancient light.

In these strange lands I deposit my sleep
into a small percentage of the neat twenty-four boxes in which I can make a memory.
The clock runs 24 instead of two swings of 12.
I wish it could all be black and white
not Greenscale.
In the movement of the long white snake through the ocean of soft hills,
they glide up and down like a bloated wave in the See.
I stare blankly in disbelief at the rows of wise buildings.
As if they are unreal, like a theme park.
Rivers quietly saw through the hard earth
knowledgeable trees gather at her banks.
Vast and soft.
Green clouds of leaves.
And the airplanes slice through the heavens
leaving a trail of white blood.
Raging with accents of gold from the sun.
As she makes her journey to you, westbound, southbound, homebound.
Her last fingers of light drizzling inside me like golden syrup to sweeten the foul, rotten darkness that feasts on my starved love.
But I shall find sweet redemption, in these strange Femdlände of my blood.

Sun leathered skin drapes nobly over the lean arms and gangly legs of our traveller as he sits pensively overlooking his rippling blue fields.
His once-fitting hang over his frame letting the late-summer early-autumn breath through.
It is golden season and soon lady Autumn will light fire to the leaves
setting them ablaze red and orange until finally burning and falling to the ground.
He looks at  the city: a smouldering white pile of ashes on the horizon.
Runners fly past with their hair swishing
Cars gallop, hungry consuming the concrete band .
Birds cruise on the breath of God and spread out on a shelf of air.
The world runs mechanically around, with him underneath.
Spinning at the same ancient pace, as he gazes in wonder from a different stratosphere.

Too many voices! Crying out at him from disolate mountain tops.
Ringing once bright but then scattering to nothing like sand in the wind

He sits at the bottom of a heavy ocean with all the weight on his mis-incarnated soul.
Letting the currents pass over him. Hoping one day a swell will pick him up and let him wash up on assure with playful waves lapping at his feet and the stark morning sun forcing him at arise

So he sits; drinking in life and sun.
At a stage of agitated peace.
Rising and wondering... If that tin of spaghetti is still in his current abode.

And then I saw them
authoritative angles of time
Their age had given them solid ground to walk on
which made my wafery fabric crumble
So young so self-conscious so doubtful
Contently looking up with puppy-dog eyes
wanting to do the trick right
Fallen into a shameful underserving existence
scrambling to gain fiber
to build a stamped and approved version of myself
So young indeed I was
So many words only worth pennies

He is a fine painting
The delicate hand of Nordic genetics
painted on a symmetrical face
His face, although youthful, gives away a spiritual antiquity
His mind is filled with sand carrying gales
from the great dunes of knowledge facing the ever-wise ocean eternally. churning up new grains of sand from her deep bed

The windy world of well-stoked book shelves pass through his mind and turn into lukewarm water for those with thirst to drink

He zips through the world on a flying fox
The line tightly and stably fixed to an inbound destination
Draining girls like cigarettes, each one long and slender providing a fix and  moment of satisfaction
His heart radiates to his hands and he uses them as noble puppets, even missing two digits

He crusades into the world with a sword of passion and a shield of God's fortune
Tightening up the loose screws in the worlds clock
To keep it ticking for everyone at gaze at

He fights, he wins, he will be remembered long after his atoms cut themselves into dust

He receives a passionate kiss from nature filling his soul with passion

Until he finds his white bowl, table cloth, soup with a dessert-spoon-keychain