Ramblings, doesn’t make sense at all and written in the middle of the night 7 years ago.
Driving through the gateway of mankind to the moon.
Someone’s gotta do the significant,
but why should it be me?
I’m no magical warrior,
who can beat the sun in a drinking game.
I fight best with plaster and syringes.
Not the healer of the century, but the little stars come to me for comfort.
With cups of coffe and some testosteron,
they’re as good as new.
Flying books in the library of photographic memory beats me over the head.
Problably I should learn something from experience.
Experience that Piggy the frog stole from my trolley.
Isn’t it teasing when when wingless angels scream at you to fly with them?
Makes you something of a cripple doesn’t it?
Words can cripple more than accidents.
But murder of the butterflies cripples you the most.
Because who can live without some butterflies in their stomachs?
Little children screaming, happiness in their throats.
What is more lifegiving than sitting on a soapbubble?
All those rainbows, recharging your batteries.
Dig underground, find some treasures,
happy, happy holiday.
Smile with your eyes closed.
So you won’t see that the things you’re smiling at are hideous nightmares,
created by the clowns of midnight.
Scary faces of the spirits of the sea of despair.
Horrible, horrible thoughts of my mind.
Upon the crest of sand I kneel,
trying to figure out what opportunities to give.
singing their sorrowfilled tunes for unappreciative audiences.
Could someone sing for me?
Fair knights on evil dragons fighting white steeds.
Which side will win.
What will be the outcome of on small sheep out of line.
Brains pouring out of nose, mouth and ears.
Lying with myself, on a flowebedfield.
Filled with paperflowers.
Up to my nose.