“Pick a Lego brick; then grow up”. This is his piece of advice.
Bitter Pan eats some grass for me. And the dream traps his voice to be bound up with mine.
“I am not a man of your fantasy; I exist” he goes on telling me.
I do not pick any brick. My hands are heavy and of ivory; still sullen, cool in the color of ice. Time flows without being a flower. I look at the garden. My eyes fly around.
Bitter Pan is still here; here or there, it does not really matter.
“Smell me the time, please”, his voice is a gift coming as obsession to my ears.
Inside me the rabbit is afraid of the clock and runs away from the garden.
On the contrary the hare feels in a good mood and goes for the devil, diving for pearls.
How to find pearls on earth? There are no pearls hidden in the grass, my mind whispers to me.
I still drink my espresso. The meaning of “see-saw” is in between.
Past and future now coincide like two sides of the sharp coin.
Once upon a crime names changed as well as any omen for pressure’s sake.
Once upon a crime, you experienced time as body; invisible in material.
Roles become intricate.
What intrinsic intellectuality really means is a wonder.
Idea and image are divorced.
Parallel to the vortex of reality your image in the nude is a mirror body.
It never stops incorporating images from space-time…
Is reality one cake for action to the marrow?
The wild child inside you is gifted of witty intentions and hungry.
You seek the substance of a true contact; of truth beyond borders.
To act, you have to keep the faith narrow.
Bitter Pan insists more on a myth revival; drinking whispers for breakfast juice.
At least, I stay in bed for a long time. Before, to imagine seemed strange.
I see myself sitting. I am not moving.
Of one gangway with nobody inside I cannot discern any doors.
In a trip by train I feel so empty with no voice.
I want to go everywhere.
Bitter Pan cuts his side-burns for me; no result.
His new symbolic profile does not work for my train of thoughts.
Of his thinking that life is short and simple I am fond. This is ‘‘vita’’.
I decide to call myself Vita Bond.
But the spring voice is not back from the old times.
One spot shows Lego toys around; suddenly I remember who
The girl asking for her book to accept being buried in the sand is
Bitter Pan eats some grass for me. And the dream traps his voice to be bound up with mine.
“I am not a man of your fantasy; I exist” he goes on telling me.
I do not pick any brick. My hands are heavy and of ivory; still sullen, cool in the color of ice. Time flows without being a flower. I look at the garden. My eyes fly around.
Bitter Pan is still here; here or there, it does not really matter.
“Smell me the time, please”, his voice is a gift coming as obsession to my ears.
Inside me the rabbit is afraid of the clock and runs away from the garden.
On the contrary the hare feels in a good mood and goes for the devil, diving for pearls.
How to find pearls on earth? There are no pearls hidden in the grass, my mind whispers to me.
I still drink my espresso. The meaning of “see-saw” is in between.
Past and future now coincide like two sides of the sharp coin.
Once upon a crime names changed as well as any omen for pressure’s sake.
Once upon a crime, you experienced time as body; invisible in material.
Roles become intricate.
What intrinsic intellectuality really means is a wonder.
Idea and image are divorced.
Parallel to the vortex of reality your image in the nude is a mirror body.
It never stops incorporating images from space-time…
Is reality one cake for action to the marrow?
The wild child inside you is gifted of witty intentions and hungry.
You seek the substance of a true contact; of truth beyond borders.
To act, you have to keep the faith narrow.
Bitter Pan insists more on a myth revival; drinking whispers for breakfast juice.
At least, I stay in bed for a long time. Before, to imagine seemed strange.
I see myself sitting. I am not moving.
Of one gangway with nobody inside I cannot discern any doors.
In a trip by train I feel so empty with no voice.
I want to go everywhere.
Bitter Pan cuts his side-burns for me; no result.
His new symbolic profile does not work for my train of thoughts.
Of his thinking that life is short and simple I am fond. This is ‘‘vita’’.
I decide to call myself Vita Bond.
But the spring voice is not back from the old times.
One spot shows Lego toys around; suddenly I remember who
The girl asking for her book to accept being buried in the sand is
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