the past is present in this
pitchfork freudian dream, you
learn to skedaddle and giggle,
as this bipoler rain hits your
hands then feet.
still you cry, i cant escape me,
you hear me, i cant escape me.
the past is present in this small
room, he paints all the walls white,
she paints them gray and brown,
and they cry, i cant escape me,
you hear me, i cant escape me,
then this dream ends, and this
bipoler storm turns into nothing
more, , then a small wave.
Awesome language, as only can be expected by these pennings of surrealism... David, `you continue to impress, my friend. Frank
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Fantastic title, fine work indeed