Retro 17, Song without dancing

Blood vessels-

I think of you guys as out of a crying or laughing

cut garlands, which open and fall down into the cone curled

Lake. Now it is too late. bone-

I think of you as long noses from puppets, on four threads

led by a bright one, labyrinthine forest. Muscles-

I think of you guys as two maple propellers, that a breeze opens

the nose is stuck, before a striker in crampons approaches. heart-

you could be a peacock, the one with a spread fan crown of iridescent

Blue patrolled heavily through the courtyard. Flutters. belly-

I imagine you as a room, which a quirky antiquarian lives in,

Created with priceless clutter. But you need

not to fancy yourself. Ears-

you are balconies for me, who doused after a broken voice

want to be with breathing pauses between operas, who get lost. Synapses- (whatever you are)

I think of you as tadpoles, those out in a shaker

twilight fidget with sugared milkshake, while the frogs of Gémenos with sparkling

Necks comfortably hook the stone of the bust of Pascal. I think! eyes-

you are two sunflowers on stalks, you bow easily and scattered

black cores, from which sunflowers rise again from stalks. I

admire yourselves at your opaque idleness. Lungs-

you are two honeycombs, the one full of honey for the sigh, the other

a scraper, around the ice balls from the wing

to scratch. chest-

Symbolschwangere, Soft, absorbed everything hard in you and

Young swallows shiver agelessly. Oh yes, Glands-

Hinterland Chanel-Puffer, Technicolor-Scream in Testosteron,

gray wimmer estrogen, hands-

the ants on me, little everyday officials. Compare brilliantly

with hinge. Feet-

my best! Good-natured horned ones, Fire squirrels on the home stretch.

(7.9.2016)

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