and now you know
that everything is unreal
We
are all slaves
of our impotence
yes, my love, she said, smoking lucky strike
(well, if love is not love, if you is no longer a You, then...)
Slaves
Workers
Money
no more poetry in taberna
no more Joy
so long, honey babe
(he thought)
-Revolution, man, Revolution!
he said @ the Gas pump
me, sittin' smokin' good old hash, no worries
(seen worse days before)
but
she came, ballerina, rebel Dean night with a cause
he smiled
she smiled
(no revolution after all, i said to meself)
Just too many I Think That
Just too many I's (Me's, you better know what I mean)
proteins are we
and stucco
made by gods
the only thing different is
We want It!
We wanna Be!
If
God
(Gods of written Books)
thought We would behave like slaves
they, poor God fellows,
made a glorious Mistake
We go our Way
and that's It
to Guy Debord
IS
& me when i was older than that now
IS
& me when i was older than that now
1 comment:
The artists rejoice at the divinity of the light, yet that is proved by the market that sells their pictures.
Is it the truth or the Socratic irony?
The awe inspiring divinity of the light rests on our choice to look at what is revealed to us, at the way we approach the gift of the life.
The need to make a personal response is what unites us in spite of all differences of our environments and life situations.
We nejoy the stars but it is impossible enter anywhere by following the more mature. Each one of us needs to knock at the heavenly door personally.
I rejoice at jour couraged to be yourself and to talk that by addressing all the strangers as yourself.
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