CRANES
Cranes have been crossing our skies for thousands
of years. Who can today cry while meeting these
flights of birds? We call landscape, field and
garden each piece of earth. Hell Diony! Earth is
nothing but lives and dirt. Cranes fly, they're
alive, and to them the sky is dirty. Cranes die,
exhausted by the air, to them the dirt is shiny.
I'd rather be a crane, than these hens fed by a
god, whose chickens are eaten back and brought up
in the fog. The earth is hostile, that's the way
it's exciting. When touching the ground, our feet
are true wings, while in these planes, they're
only crawling slaves. So i'd rather be a crane,
than a lackey in your caves. What we call home,
buildings, fields and roads, are just lovely
names given to the chickens' fog. We should cry
while seeing cranes fly, and feel thrills. 'Cause
the cranes are pierced by a freedom we definitely
killed.
HOLLOW DAY
Draw a land where starving is somatic where
Savour and stillness are freak, picture a scenery
struck by whiteness. This white image is where
Phil found death. Hollow days, and stronghold
scenes. Hollow days, but breathing screens. Phil
agreed to all headsmen, wisely. But headsmen
didn't feel anything, deathly. Isn't this
violence? This blinding world... Where is the
glance? In this blinding world? Violence is a
portrayal taken for real. Violence is the
disinfected world of Phil. Both god and science
are truly dead, so Phil believes in the pics in
front of his head. True were the feet he walked
with. True were the hands holding this machine.
Phil was hungry, so the mainstream fed him. Now,
his feet and hands all freeze. The so called
agora brings him the warmth he needs. The sweet
papers show him the saintly way. The meat he eats
seems to come from trees. And murder scenes fill
up his hollow day. This world of sweetness is
violence. This land of whiteness is violence. I
can't even hear Phil shooting. He's now a
character in your drawing. A glance of moonlight
could have been enough to fly. I'd better shirk
the white, and turn into a dark MAGPIE
DRYNESS
I look at these old men, with years of work in
their hands. They've been broken willingly by the
divine owners of austerity. As if Well-Being was
a whim, a never coming true dream, another half
lived sin, with poisoned wine in. Sensualist or
paranoïd, life shelters a tragedy, something we
can't avoid can't fight, can't even see. Did the
choice die when we were born? Where's life on
this dry soil? Earning a living is killing life
and day to day delights are tasteless flights.
The soil has been dryed thanks to divine lies.
The soil has been sullied, each engine has been
deifyed. Old working timers or hard grind
owners... sludge welcome their corpses... but
what's this hell been made for? Have we been
fallen or self brought up? Is the fruit
forbidden? Should we give up? Is labour a hiding
one's face time? Is austerity an endless given
state? Austerity is a play, and labour is a rule.
I look at this old man with the truth in his
hand, he's been consciously self made, not
broken, but aware of the fate
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