Good night,
my beloved.
But before you go to sleep
Let me unravel this itch in my life.
I bet you’ve known about the marvelous old painter
He was a fine man living up to 300 years
He smoked his broken home every evening
with his broken bone
And put it back in place on Friday morning
Oh,
What a man.
The old painter always called me
Even tonight, when he was dead,
to pray while slitting my throat
And to truth up the lamp
Standing on my wrist
“Be satisfied of what you have”
Said the old painter who was throatless
And then he kept mumbling
With his imaginary head
He had hard times breathing
Because he planted trees on his lungs
It was only for the sake of beauty.
Summon on ancient pain
What a shame.
Where did the old painter live?
You shouldn’t ask.
He lived in my closet,
Only with a canvas, very small
As big as the book of life.
But it was gone,
He wanted me to look for it
Humbly with a grudge
Without a penny or a candy
Or even the tears of an ant
I don’t know why it was so important
It was a masterpiece, he said
A painting of nothing
A blank space
Of poetry only
All I wished for him
Was to stop making up tales
of Degas' unrequited loves
for ballerinas
using his own words
of listless lost lovers
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
Good night,
my beloved.
But before you go to sleep
Let me unravel this itch in my life.
I bet you’ve known about the marvelous old painter
He was a fine man living up to 300 years
He smoked his broken home every evening
with his broken bone
And put it back in place on Friday morning
Oh,
What a man.
The old painter always called me
Even tonight, when he was dead,
to pray while slitting my throat
And to truth up the lamp
Standing on my wrist
“Be satisfied of what you have”
Said the old painter who was throatless
And then he kept mumbling
With his imaginary head
He had hard times breathing
Because he planted trees on his lungs
It was only for the sake of beauty.
Summon on ancient pain
What a shame.
Where did the old painter live?
You shouldn’t ask.
He lived in my closet,
Only with a canvas, very small
As big as the book of life.
But it was gone,
He wanted me to look for it
Humbly with a grudge
Without a penny or a candy
Or even the tears of an ant
I don’t know why it was so important
It was a masterpiece, he said
A painting of nothing
A blank space
Of poetry only
All I wished for him
Was to stop making up tales
of Degas' unrequited loves
for ballerinas
using his own words
of listless lost lovers
