Song Of Myself

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I see a slow, simple youngster by a busy street,
With a begging bowl in his shaking hand.
Trying to smile but hurting infinitely. Nobody notices.
I do, but walk by.

An old man gets naked and kisses a model-doll in his attic
It’s half-light and he’s in tears.
When he finally comes his eyes are cascading.

I see a beaten dog in a pungent alley. He tries to bite me.
All pride has left his wild drooling eyes.
I wish I had my leg to spare.

A mother visits her son, smiles to him through the bars.
She’s never loved him more.

An obese girl enters an elevator with me.
All dressed up fancy, a green butterfly on her neck.
Terribly sweeet perfume deafens me.
She’s going to dinner alone.
That makes her even more beautiful.

I see a model’s face on a brick wall.
A statue of porcelain perfection beside a violent city kill.
A city that worships flesh.

The first thing I ever heard, was a wandering
Man telling his story
It was you, the grass under my bare feet,
The campfire in the dead of night,
The heavenly black of sky and sea.

It was us,
Roaming the rainy roads, combing the guilded beaches.
Waking up to a new gallery of wonders every morn,
Bathing in places no-one’s seen before,
Shipwrecked on some matt-painted island,
Clad in nothing but the surf – beauty’s finest robe.

Beyond all mortality we are, swinging in the breath of nature,
In early air of the dawn of life,
A sight to silence the heavens.

I want to travel where life travels,
Following it’s permanent lead.
Where the air tastes like snow music,
Where grass smells like fresh-born Eden,
I would pass no man, no stranger, no tragedy or rapture,
I would bathe in a world of sensation,
Love, goodness and simplicity.

(While violated and imprisoned by technology)

The thought of my family’s graves was the only moment
I used to experience true love
That love remains infintie,
As I’ll never be the man my father is.

How can you „just be yourself”
When you don’t know who you are?
Stop saying „I know how you feel”
How could anyone know how another feels?

Who am I to judge a priest, beggar,
Whore, politician, wrongdoer?
I am, you are, all of them already.

Dear child, stop working, go play
Forget every rule
There’s no fear in a dream!

„Is there a village inside this snowflake?”
– a child asked me.
„What’s the colour of our lullaby?”

I’ve never been so close to truth as then,
I touched it’s silver lining!

Death is the winner in any war,
Nothing noble in dying for your religion,
For your country,
For ideology, for faith,
For another man. Yes!

Paper is dead without words,
Ink idle without a poem,
All the world dead without stories.
Without love and disarming beauty.

Careless, realism costs souls.

Ever seen the Lord smile?
All the care for the world made Beautiful a sad man?
Why do we still carry a device of torture around our necks?
Oh, how rotten your pre-apocalypse is,
All you bible-black fools living over nightmare ground.

I see all those empty cradles and wonder
If man will never change.

I, too, wish to be a decent manboy, but all I am
Is smoke and mirrors.
Still given everything, may I be deserving.

 

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