Pastel du printemps vs. The Exotic Fork
Illustration from iStockphoto
Another tragedy. The exceptional lies only in blood.
Gentle like a hurricane I fall into the voluptuousness of a butterfly.
Turned once more towards the darkness of a beautiful morning filled with promises,
I always prefer to avoid the unavoidable awakening.
And so I stroll on!
From the sky the rhythm falls.
From waltz to samba to arms to toes to ocean to flower to cloud into the night to life between the sheets to whispers to moments to all to salsa to maybe until then again tomorrow from you till death.
But not yet.
Everything could be so clear if only I could…
Always different. Yesterday was bright.
And even if I drink my self to sleep I would still have to wake up.
Even if I smoke I would still have to feel something.
And even if I inject heroin into my veins I couldn’t fly.
Maybe I should go to sleep.
But am I just sick or the cetaceans are singing? And so what? Beauty is not enough anymore.
But do they really glow or maybe I just need a shower? Wash off and die again.
The existential squatting. Then you wipe yourself clean.
You better forget. It’s anyway.
Sooner or later you have to wake up.
And then you wonder what just happened in last five years.
And maybe you scream.
Or maybe you turn on the other side.
And go to work. And maybe you die.
You laughed for nothing you cried for nothing you forgot for nothing you did for nothing you dreamed for nothing you spoke for nothing you danced for nothing you loved for nothing you slept for nothing.
Or maybe you didn’t.
Here come the elections day.
T-shirt or shirt and tie. Red or blue. Blonde or brunette. Dead or alive.
The right guy wins anyway. Always. So why bother?
But remains the question…
The dices have been thrown or Friday is just another coincidence?