…and after all, why should we
dream in this dreamless world?
White walls wait in vain a
paintbrush, a hand with sand,
shattered glass canned in bodies,
familiar faces hold deep scars past recognition
in faded paintings of the past,
kept for unknown reasons in lugubrious feelings
and it all comes down to this. I
light my spirit with a handmade satisfaction,
I rub my brain off on sleepless
nights with friends like Johnny and Jack,
I lack the sense of now and here
when sharp shards of the past
sting my flesh,
and blood gushes
to my brain with floods of ruined houses.
Days pass like whores I never paid,
towers I never knew how to climb,
lips I
never knew how to approach and it seems time skips over credits
and my present needs certain edits. Naked stories
dash in from spread shaved legs, sweet sweat and honey drop nipples, Anaïs Mountains explored in
hot summer nights, a rush of adrenaline
and then it all stops. I wake up in solitude.
No drama here, no love, no desire, no pain and
everything
melts in a green pot.
Old and dusty memories mixed with dreams and hopes
until the mirage transgresses pushing my reality towards a floating state. I
try to stand against the wall; I fall on the ceiling from where I see me on the
coach. I am a miller of emotions and experiences, a jack on the road,
a philosophical monkey in a human body. I kill my
hopes with useless dreams for that I call it off,
I run away from these false prophecies,
I hide
myself in realities embrace
…and after all, why should we
dream in this dreamless world?
