A bowl of soup that
never goes old and my feet  
are cold sweating
and stink and eat the dead skin…
I want this and that
it will never come out perfect almost like writing a poem
that fits the  state of perfection and
when it’s done that perfection dies out.
I paint a ugly dog with a smile
when music is too loud
when fingers tremble
you know time is almost done
little  drops of air come out of you
little crystal tears do not come
out of you no more