I am coming from a land I had built in my bedroom years ago.
Years ago, when my dolls were named..
when iron gates could be gates, could be barricades, could be the way
to another country.
There, in my room... the kites flew beyond the palisade.
Children were bred, children were killed.
Many a women met many a men.. all of them lived together, loved together.
And then there was sex, in pretending that my mother's dark brown
slender lipstick was my Aundrey Hepburn cigar.
And then there was cinema, in the way I'd lie down and imagined
someone noticing the curve of my neck from behind.
And then there was poetry, in me trying to feel like an artist.
And was seduction, in those scantily dressed seductive mono performances.
Ahh the mirror.
He knows it all.
Wherever that land could have come from, it still breeds beneath my
cushions, like dust mites.
I am nearly allergic to it, to it's easiness of random tours to any
and everywhere.
That easiness, I've lost it. I think, i think too much.
Work, infidelity, brilliance, competition, jealousy, envy... I think so much.