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THE WARM FEET START WALKING
with opened mouth, soft lips to look at the turquoise and at the holes, in which the lizzards disappear, in the evenings they urge for the light, for the solitaryly hanging bulb, many a life of a colourful moth melts on the glass. The beautiful butterfly becomes ugly, any time the ugly lizzard also will become beautiful on the hot ground in the room high above the Ganges, the washed feet get dry while going, the wet imprints get pale. Three thrushs sit on the wall with the same direction of watching. Still two. Still one. No one outer edges of the feet, balls, toes one at the other. The roundness of heels. Arch. To sink in and raise. Ugly becomes beautiful. Beautiful becomes ugly. Ring adorned toes, red nails. Callous to stand and move. Lime blossoms. Marihuana to smoke. His feet to kiss. To strech and to bend. To bow. And to go. To go away. To stay. To stay. Only the backsides of the heels touch the floor. Arms crossed behind the head. Breast stands above the shirt. Heat stands in the room. Also the house has soaked it up. Saturated each stone on the ground. Colour flakes off the wall. You touch me. Where is everywhere. Just not to give in such quickly. Further. Further. Heartbeat calms down. Flying is great. Time makes a break. Imprints in clay |
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TEXT OUT OF THE HEAD TEXT OUT OF THE NAVEL TEXT OUT OF THE MIDDLE OF THE BACK |
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