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[Jan. 21st, 2016|03:35 pm] |
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A poster walks towards me, "fish and sausages" it says, but it also comes with a wave that draws me into the water, and then there is nothing else but screaming whales with ancestral songs attached to their backs. Whale is no father, whale is a tree, deep in its pin, braiding its hair with coffee stitch. Whale walks and whale candy, it's an endless sea in which everything will soon be tired, because whales are all that I can get to know now. Long ago, horses and quail lived there, but now they are just rust and sand. At the Whale conference, there is not the slightest hope of a slice of meat. Bombard each other with blankets, soul dogs, you have algae in your boots and crystal stars on your foreheads, so the song, which you have begun, will be stopped only by my knife. You are evil, you were the ones who spoiled all my pliers in my backyard shop, again, you with your rust and sand, I go there, I think there will be pliers, but I'm seeing only moldy lies. Mold is even on the miller's hat, I hope it will get in his flour, his children will have unpalatable bread, on Sunday morning they will lay the table and will be freshly ground milk, but there will also be the bread that they can not hide, and then there will be someone who will point a finger at them, and children will shout, they will shout to admit that they are to blame for everything. Yes, but gone are the days when you had to make a boat, now everyone skins their neighbor's lamb. Sausage wave is fermenting under the house to cut the cork from the ship's stack, but still it doesn't know how to erect a tent in an indifferent world. |
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