oh how the stars draw us out from the mud of our original homes,
tasting fine wine and aged cheese, we lock ourselves in time.
we polarise and we jeopardise our innocence for projections of better lives:
a greener garden, a deeper love, a bigger bank of plastic paper and kings and queens and untold horrors, we sacrifice our innocence…
we lock ourselves in time.
oh but hollow are thine thoughts,
oh but hollow is thine money,
oh but empty is thine stomach,
after caviar and wine.
for no love was made in the future,
no baby born in the past,
no ecstasy is to be found,
in words and drawings.
so tell thine favourite stories,
draw to thy hearts content,
but on thine dying bed,
with thine head on thy lovers lap,
do not touch a single thought,
do not long for thine mind.
For thy are here,
do not miss it…
thine death is ever-present