#strawberriesobsession

Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?

For you, my love I went to a bird market And I bought a bird For you My love I went to a flower market And I bought a flower For you My love I went to a junk market And I bought a chain A heavey chain For you My love And I went to a slave market And I searched for you But I couldn't find you anywhere My love

I flora you you fauna me I flesh you I door you and window you you bones me you ocean me you courage me you meteor me I gold key you I extraordinary you you paroxysm me you paroxysm and paradox me I harpsichord you you silently me you mirror me I wristwatch you you mirage me oasis me you bird insect cataract me I lunar you you cumulus me you high tide me I transparent you you twilight me translucent me you empty castle and maze me parallax and parabola me you horizontal and vertical me you oblique me I equinox you I poet you you dance me I particular you you perpendicular and mezzanine me you visible me silhouette me you infinite me indivisible me you irony me I fragile you and ardent you I phonetically you you hieroglyph me you space me and cascade me I cascade you in turn but you you fluid me you comet me you volcanic me we pulverize each other we scandalously each other night and day we each other this very day you tangent me I concentric you you soluble me you insoluble me you asphyxiating and liberating me you heart-beat me you dizzy me ecstasy me you passionately and absolute me I absent you you absurd me I nostril you hair you and hip you you haunt me I breast you I chest your breast then guise you I corset you you odor me you dizzy me you slide I thigh you caress you I quiver you you stride me you unbearable me I amazon you I throat you stomach you skirt you garter you stockings you I Bach you yes I Bach you for harpsichord breast and flute (ii) I trembling you you seduce me absorb me I dispute you I risk you I climb you you skim me I swim you but you, you swirl me you graze me you circle me you flesh leather skin and bite me you black lace me you red slipper me and when you do not heel my senses you crocodile them you whale them you fascinate them you cover me I discover you invent you sometimes you uncover yourself you moist lips me I deliver and delirious you you delirious and passionate me I shoulder you and vertebra you I ankle you eyelash and pupil you and if I do not scapula before my lungs even after you armpit me I breathe you night and day I breathe you I mouth you I palate you I tooth and claw you vulva and eyelid you I breath you groin you blood you neck you I calves you I certain you I cheek and vein you I hands you sweat you tongue you nape you I sail you I shadow you I body and ghost you I retina you in my breath you iris yourself I write you you think me

-a fly in a spider's web - I wait…

This life is a hospital in which each patient is possessed by the desire to change beds. One wants to suffer in front of the stove and another believes that he will get well near the window. It always seems to me that I will be better off there where I am not, and this question of moving about is one that I discuss endlessly with my soul "Tell me, my soul, my poor chilled soul, what would you think about going to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you'll be able to soak up the sun like a lizard there. That city is on the shore; they say that it is built all out of marble, and that the people there have such a hatred of the vegetable, that they tear down all the trees. There's a country after your own heart -- a landscape made out of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them!" My soul does not reply. "Because you love rest so much, combined with the spectacle of movement, do you want to come and live in Holland, that beatifying land? Perhaps you will be entertained in that country whose image you have so often admired in museums. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts and ships anchored at the foot of houses?" My soul remains mute. "Does Batavia please you more, perhaps? There we would find, after all, the European spirit married to tropical beauty." Not a word. -- Is my soul dead? Have you then reached such a degree of torpor that you are only happy with your illness? If that's the case, let us flee toward lands that are the analogies of Death. -- I've got it, poor soul! We'll pack our bags for Torneo. Let's go even further, to the far end of the Baltic. Even further from life if that is possible: let's go live at the pole. There the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and augments monotony, that half of nothingness. There we could take long baths in the shadows, while, to entertain us, the aurora borealis send us from time to time its pink sheaf of sparkling light, like the reflection of fireworks in Hell!" Finally, my soul explodes, and wisely she shrieks at me: "It doesn't matter where! It doesn't matter where! As long as it's out of this world!”