tags: "simple"; "glance"; "bones"; "black"; "care"; "nothing"; "air"; "tapes"; "embell"; "joy"; "sound";
“”there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, no power to express, no desire to express, together with an obligation to express.”
- Samuel Beckett
Jan Jelinek, Giorgio Moriandi
A grain of comism in the endevaour, I mean
I'd call world mere as a reference to ones fatigue,
It happens that way.
So I'd love to greet some blanket joy beyond,
A hideout of hi tech rodents where we'd grasp ourselves,
With something cheery to say about subjectivity.
As phenomenons flourishing in nothingness,
That would be great.
--- A mild tendency
Precision and predictability
Are hollowed in physical world
There are many marks
Meant to depict.
Smell the trees out there.
Black. Green. Blue. White.
Bulbs are still warm.
It is truly simple. Help yourself with
Confection. There is nothing,
Nothing to speak of.
A little powder. Custom thoughts.
Agreements and ways to quit.
Our place is unaccessable.
Speak. Speak at prime.
And so, take a struggle to speak first.
Speak before the relate and speak after.
Speak about the valve that sinks
And about the every drop you hear.
Tell as you focus.
On the grey street or wherever you are
And nevermind what you see
So perhaps a bird on the lattern will let you remind better
Sleeples nights while listening to the broken valve.
A line in the air
Above some simple picture
It is living
Between the warmth of plains
And ridicule pink noises.
There is a bed in the evening
---A mild tendency
Water in a cup
Careful are nervous
It's a quiet music of bones
Clear as the glance of dancing girl*
And sound of the city by day.
It seems hard and black
Time hanging on the poles
With all it's beauty.
A time compressed and its bone white beauty
Hanging on the line with those beloved
As the concience black and simply futile
That reminds a glance so soft.
A stain of plasticine
Matt light cutting angles
Red cord halt by the sticks
The perfect overlook
I mean the weather as you speak
Little black birds on the roof
A breath is shaped by utmost.
Nails by which breath is curved.
Mind shaped as a nail.
Cloud so calm in a while
The widest of days
It is a blossom
I mean that time
Something salient is broken.
It is the other
Or the touch of air
It is the light with a bit of stagnace.
Tapes that still are being notched by
The middle parts
Are the most subverted.
Movement as a reminder
In a while enclosed perfectly
Just at it beggins to be vain.
My eyes are gloomy but they don't sleep
They turn to a different places at a time
When I persue I look at my feet