and then our exile

o these prophetic dreams.

i woke up this morning and the dawn was cold and hard. but i did not know it is a burial and a birth, how do i dispose of the little bits of placenta.

day when i look at myself and think hah, what a specimen, so well preserved, so gloriously free in the common rampage.

last night i was coming down the winding stairs and narrow alleyways of this mountain, visiting someone who lives higher up, it was about ten pm, and i looked out and saw the lights of damascus spreading under the horizon and a wide sky.

it smells like spring here, oddly enough. cut grass and flowers. delusions somewhere, i know.

and the stories of the little indian savages playing with fire until they got burnt. and then the saving white father would pad them with whisky and confessional, forgive me holiness for playing.

pierre drowned himself in drink, but he lived in russia. levin was a farmer. sheep are for shearing, syria and iran are the two last vaguely independent states in the middel east and each are being surrounded, divide and conquer, lick the bottom of my heel.

and somewhere i am planting saplings.