Wednesday, April 27, 2011

I have heard so many stories

Reading the paper at mornings,

Like a best seller in the room

The cupboard is still collaging the morning genre

Damaging reality with loving, full in the mug

It is still the water paint…not matured  for oil

I have been to a place called Stockholm along with other states of spectrums

A wrong of an eye, breaking through crystals…the rainbow is fake  

and you know the coffee there is hysterically addicting

It gives you the lightness of moody syndromes

But not anymore

I am now enclosing a map along with a short letter

And I surrendered to its confusion;

 I mix the mornings through nightly knapsack

Outside of my world

to its inside destination that gives you the sweet sensation of

Curvy supplies ….bright and wished for

And for some reason it is inspiringly quiet

Cat is resting somewhere, no dog is howling

the forest of skinny legs is accompanying with

 sounds of big cushions and it

surveys for its residents constantly, watching …and maybe humming

noticing the pink bow on the chest…ahh so lazy

in reality they split the dark without a credit of recommendation

they are experienced

the place is an island of untouched habitat of summons…

…or they are not in love…..

I am thinking to myself why I was introduced to products of British and Canadian
was it a political choice of reaching out ? Or was it vice versa
their target was us
first class but smaller market
that brought a complexity of belonging
even now, agile between ideas
I know the beat is first class but never for the market itself
They educate you and censor you forever
Like watching the PBS channel
You feel like you are recovering from something
While recording the ideas
But in reality you were not sick at all till
You were doing it....