I think I am going to return,
to capturing butterflies with my hat
And to pulling white, chubby rabbits.
Wander among the streets,
shouting and wailing,
until, small children stand on their balconies
watching from a bed of electric wires
That shelters me. From the aura of childhood.
They see the magic,
I have been a wanderer
a lonely one. On a single mission
to kiss death with red steaming lips.
A red rose drowned in this red bathtub,
and lots of Silence.
I was trying to capture the moment; and the moment beyond,
In an endless series of pages of worthless crap,
In an endless series of words,
Words of worthless crap!
Heaped one onto another,
My butt smeared with the yellow faeces.
I always thought the hat found me
but in fact I had bought it at the market years ago
in return I gave my breath; it owns me.
I like how it rides.
Return to what, my dear?
Return to this emptiness of my own sorrow,
Of me leaving you for one silent moment,
That sounded like a trumpet in the sky,
It’s true what they say about love,
You always kill, shed blood,
Drain the street with blood,
And then mourn over the loss.
But again my dear, I ask
What is the return?
Perhaps I am exhausted
I am wearied from my travels
I might even run away again in my stripped shorts
But, for now
I will rest my head on your cushion-breasts.
This is love.
And this is re-turn.