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Patterns Patterns Patterns

by Colour For A Rebel

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1.
I took a sound from my collection of objects, I looked around, the ground is shaking in shock. I want to be burned like a symbol.
2.
3.
Sailing through empty sea, looking back, noone there Selling self, dreaming in, feeling thin, paper thin. There is no time to waste.
4.
Looking for the answer to my brain, but I can't be helped. Singing for the pillows of unwilling heads, of unwilling heads, of unwilling heads. Moving with the leaves, in the dusk and trees. She sleeps and dreams of seas. Singing for the pillows of unwilling heads, of unwilling heads, of unwilling heads. I seek no understanding of this world of pain. I just wish that it would rain, wish that it would rain. Singing for the pillows of unwilling heads, of unwilling heads, of unwilling heads. Singing for the pillows.
5.
We are surrounded by patterns, we are surrounded by patterns, we are surrounded by patterns, we are surrounded by patterns.
6.
7.
Cat attack 03:57
8.
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo- biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
9.
Χρόνια ο ουρανός ήτανε ένα δύσκολο χαρτί κρυμμένο μες στην τσέπη μου και μες στον κήπο μου φύτρωνε όλη τη μέρα αίμα γιατί βροχή πέφταν οι πέτρες απ’ τον άλλο ουρανό τσακίζοντας κρέατα και κόκαλα Έτσι σαν ήρθε η Ανάσταση ντυμένος μαύρα μ’ ένα κόκκινο κερί βγήκα τρελός στους δρόμους ήμουνα ένα κίτρινο πουλί σαν κι αυτά που ζωγράφιζε ο Modigliani ποτέ μου ποτέ μου δεν είχα γεννηθεί

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released February 9, 2014

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Colour For A Rebel London, UK

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