They have this middle part that displays a lot of confusion. It also shows their strength. Two longs arms come out of it to reach for their prey. They have long ears, wildness. They can hear you well from a distance. They are always listening. They don’t move much. Their legs are short. Their breasts make me think that their gender is female, but I might be wrong. Nowadays, everything is possible.
They love a falcon bird. They speak to it. The bird becomes a word, a deadly message which they send flying to hunt for its prey. –What is the prey? Ha! Ha! Ha! That can only be you. Me, I got myself a feather from that bird. I wear the feather to become more than just a man. I am The Deadly Man-Bird-Word.
Sooner or later, they are overcome by sadness. Taken down, and then crushed like wheat. Crushed like Pepper ants. Crushed like oranges. Their left leg—the side of the heart—usually remains alive a little longer. The foot appears to want to boot the world into motion, but in reality, it is only kicking itself out of here, out of the nose breaking, tears shedding drama of this life with its limited score.
Man is just another storm. Nobody ever gets angry at the wind when it pushes somebody down to the ground, but people get mad all the time at other people. Why?
They are drunk with life. They go—when they go—with a woolen hat, and mittens, and a scarf, so they can survive outside in the cold. They walk—when they have to. They sing. They dream about the warm body of their soul mate which they grab every night together with the night sky and all the stars. Sometimes they fall asleep on a hot stove, and unfortunately that means: They burn to death, but dreaming.
They are dreaded angels. They carry not a sword, but a knife big, and dirty. They walk—when they have to—fast and low. You’ll never see their full face unless they come at you, because they keep one eye on the path and the other on their final destination which is the house of their future victim where they will also die, because nothing can survive guilt. They wear a cap to hide their somber plans from the sky. The Sky knows it all, but that’s just what that hat is for: To provide the higher powers with an excuse to turn a blind eye on the shiny steel.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
They love a falcon bird. They speak to it. The bird becomes a word, a deadly message which they send flying to hunt for its prey. –What is the prey? Ha! Ha! Ha! That can only be you. Me, I got myself a feather from that bird. I wear the feather to become more than just a man. I am The Deadly Man-Bird-Word.
Sooner or later, they are overcome by sadness. Taken down, and then crushed like wheat. Crushed like Pepper ants. Crushed like oranges. Their left leg—the side of the heart—usually remains alive a little longer. The foot appears to want to boot the world into motion, but in reality, it is only kicking itself out of here, out of the nose breaking, tears shedding drama of this life with its limited score.
Man is just another storm. Nobody ever gets angry at the wind when it pushes somebody down to the ground, but people get mad all the time at other people. Why?
They are drunk with life. They go—when they go—with a woolen hat, and mittens, and a scarf, so they can survive outside in the cold. They walk—when they have to. They sing. They dream about the warm body of their soul mate which they grab every night together with the night sky and all the stars. Sometimes they fall asleep on a hot stove, and unfortunately that means: They burn to death, but dreaming.
They are dreaded angels. They carry not a sword, but a knife big, and dirty. They walk—when they have to—fast and low. You’ll never see their full face unless they come at you, because they keep one eye on the path and the other on their final destination which is the house of their future victim where they will also die, because nothing can survive guilt. They wear a cap to hide their somber plans from the sky. The Sky knows it all, but that’s just what that hat is for: To provide the higher powers with an excuse to turn a blind eye on the shiny steel.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
::: ::: :::
[Picture: Dear Henri by reading_is_dangerous]
Posts
shame on us ! no comment about this one !
ReplyDeletepainting and words are so well interwoven I can't slit them up
je pourrais me noyer dans le tableau et me perdre une éternité tout aussi facilement dans tes mots
maybe it's the english language that gives them their magical music I read them aloud and their are full of echoes that eat up my soul
chop chop chop