I’m farfetched and assured, 

Like gleaming laughter on lost strings,

Attend a call to a swallow in deep spring. 

Opening up like clouds on a summer day,

Love is too powerful a word. 

May she’ll dance and sing with a free hand. 

I don’t know. 

I’m not scared. 

But I shall not runaway, and I shall not call.

For summer is my season I know, nor bad is fall. 

Like the neon interjects out of the dark, 

I shall whistle like a vagrant on a street.

For I’m lost. 

I dream of an empty street.

Hear Americans calling out to me.

In the distance with a smile.,

Like an extinct sunrise.

By dreams in young flourish

Tangerines and grenadine and margarine. 

I have been.

Far from home on an ancient summer day. 

Those days were the epitomes of rock and roll.

We must dance and if we must be happy.

We loved. We left. We wept.

Those songs I wrote were like pieces of distant dust,

With the strange beauty of their own but never to be seen and never to be read. 

That ole’ guitar was made from brass.

Yet its taste was that of glass.

I felt like it was a dream,

only to be confronted by the witty joking face of reality.

I was fed up no less. 

Stare at hills in the past,

Tear yourself apart.

Gaze at the star-filled sky,

Look at the butterflies wandering by.

Hear the musician weep

As he sings a lonely beat.

Here the joyful chirp,

Of a sparrow who just gave birth.

Now break down, yes, break down,

Break and never join again,

Like a vase shattered in the floor.

Here the goats bray,

As they eat in the glowing day.

Slap yourself till your hands break,

Drown yourself in a bloody lake.

Find your inner-peace and smile,

Walk down a busy road for a mile.

Creep down the street,

With ever silent feet.

Look at the beauty in yourself,

Be an open book in an open shelf.

Now break down, yes, break down,

Break and never join again,

Like a vase shattered on the floor.

Now I don’t have much to say,

I am going crazy,

I am mad,

And I don’t see what’s wrong with that.

A silence prepared like broth, conceived like life bathes me. I have nothing much, a body, a soul covered in chains and chuckles, and perhaps a few personal belongings. My intensity goes round dark corners, my love around broken alleys. My thoughts are like a drowned milky music, played over a vintage piano with crystal white keys and broken strings. Like abstractions and poetry, like murders and bloodshed, like the sweet scent of unintelligible verse pardoned by discarded neglect. The sweet sound in the night of a familiar soprano voice, like a terrible dream whistles. That is how life is, like a chocolate; bitter when it is dark, sweet when its skies are white. The afternoon hasn’t gone, but only in my dreams.

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