Hands wrapped in yellow elastic gloves
Mother repeals the goldfish which fidgets on the floor.
Dusky pink fuzz of the carpet matt the gold of the scales with an antique finisch.
Back into the water - the glassy round of being at home. The world - distorted.
Vaulted world - vaulted eyes - vaulted glass.
Even the fish knows nothing of it all.
Just a little bit of something.
Would the world really be a disc - where would they flow, the waters of the oceans and seas?
(And where would be the source of all this water?)
(And where would be the source of all this water?)
Was Columbus fearful?
In a bowl of wood, swelled canvas - over the horizon - To fall in into a black vacuum on the edge of the world
(Together with all the
fish and squids and whales...)
How easy it has become to be curious. We turn on the TV - A journey in glittering rows - divided by the retina.
Pushed through the eyes - and turned around.
Puts something warm and cosy around our shoulders.
Numbing.
Apathetic.
Everything we see happens - rehashed - always others.
There is a derma between the things - a colorful - tattooed skin. So delicate - So flimsy.
A hymen separates dreams from reality.
Betimes - when we are sick - the membrane tears
And we bleed like heroes - in shimmering armor.
However - we smile.
We do not flee to escape the pain by changing the room. Now - our laughter is gone, we have sold it to the experiences of strangers.
And silently slays us a feather
falling from the sky.
The world is a plate.
A soup plate in the hand of a drunken giant.
A waiter in a space restaurant.
Waiter - a helping of this delicious soup please - Are fish in it?
The giant nods - Yet the plate slants - The soup overspill.
In the wanly light of a bare bulb a waterfall pours on the pink carpet in the visible world.
A goldfish is drying.
Almost.
Is picked.
Embedded in yellow rubber
back into the soup sea.
©Wortflorist