il joue sur son luth

des lunes ambrées
tournent en rond

une par une

la jongleuse
les lance

une voie lactée
opalescente

le clair de lune

haletante
la jongleuse se noie

~~~
he's playing the lute.

she takes
the amber moons
turning round
and round,

she juggles.

one by one,
they turn into
a milky way,
opalescent,
the moonlight

- a lake,
for the juggler
to drown.

a green screen,
the imaged voice
in my head.

all is
but
what it is.

and when
spring comes,
wounded trees
bear a blossom
in their own blood.

highway without cars,
but condensated dreams
scattered all over the road.

past is the future,
ahead the unknown,
the road is neverendless.

Collages of stars
that sustain
some Western Dream.

Living off of tuna cans,
there's my dream, stumbling on the floor:
the carpet reads 'HAPPINESS HAPPENS'.

I write better when I don't write
with a sense of purpose.

You'd think there'd be more to it.
But no. It's just words, man. They can only
take you so far without your feet.

And it may be to me
the same that is to you.

The rain outside, I open the door
& let my loved ones shelter inside.

And just like that,
with all the mercury in my blood,
I leave the door opened.

Do prefer love
over the complicated questions.
A blindfold is
the only truth you should care to know.

Desire for my body to warm your soul
& reach out for a fire that won't burn.
I'll wander our souls to places
where rock rolls all day long.

Unplug my cruel heart
and leave the good side
to rule over my deeds,

and all I'll ask of you in the between
is a fair song
& the sound of your laughter
blowing in the wind.

But if it gets hazy & distant,
I'll do what I do best:
I'll rewind the road
& walk over the old one.

gonna hold my soul
to the devil untold;
just a cup of coffee
and you'll never know.

they wait and they wait.
If only they learned how to bend the winds,
their ships would go anywhere.

out in the meadows.
Cars will stop as I cross
the street of dreams.

Collages of stars
that sustain
the Western Dream.

So I'm living off of tuna cans.
The metallic garbage smells of
salty water & broken shards.

I'm too old to be young,
too fragile to stay out in the night
when all I want is a good joke to laugh at
instead of a bad morning story.

I write better when I don't write
with a sense of purpose.

And I like it.
The rain outside, I open the door
& let them shelter inside.

And just like that,
with all the mercury in my blood,
I leave the door opened.