Dear mother,
things here are big and boiling.
Like fat Roman candles, that carry the scent of luscious grapes, my insides spill over the grass and air, o so brittle and cold.
Constant images and dreams, that are real and as constant repeatings of the past, cover my holes so I become a whole of one bizarre happening, a mass for everything everybody ever saw.
I become the star,
I become the shining,
I become the dark
And I see and hear and feel I am near to something more far away, but more sacred than the road that appears in your stare.
I feel the fattening of my skin, the growth of my hair and nails with which I pick the golden strings of ultimate
brightness,
intensity,
electricity.
I don't want to meet your eyes.
I don't want to meet your eyes.
They're so watery I'm afraid I'll spill and lose them somewhere in your night.
I will be.
I am is far behind.
And I was, but never truly.
Dear Mother, I saw God.
Things here are big and burning.
Mother, I dreamt of God.
He was wearing a mask.
A face of some kind.
It looked as if it truly once was mine.
