In the Mirror

I look at the other
And hear him say:

‘I speak the name
Of the soul of the universe:
It is raining inside my mind.

How can I fit together
What I do not know
And what I am beginning to be?

How can I see into the origin
Soon enough to leave it behind

Each time?’

English is your first language isn't it? You use it well.

NO. I was born illiterate.

cheers,

Peter

Salvador Dalí (upon being threatened with disinheritence by his father) handed his father a condom containing his own sperm, saying, "Take that. I owe you nothing anymore!"

origins and onions
on the table with oranges

peeling peeling
like the tones from the tower

synaesthesia
putting me to sleep

I dream like an onion
I wake with an orange
I pass myself in the street

[www.doctorhugo.org]

René Magritte, The False Mirror 1928 -- see, in Hugo Heyrman's article above.

Underhandedly, and reciting chants
At a mirror at the entrance to the stockyard
That the opposite of hate, being tolerated,
Serenaded and it wasn’t too demanding

illeraticy is your first language?

A gunshot at the bookshop
Those goddamn sneaky avatars
With hammers and philosophies
It rains like it’s supposed to be
Some literate antique

Before I said iota
I tried like hell to count the stars
I counted for a real long time
I think I lost my place and then
I think I fell asleep

Some trollops at fiesta
They weaved placation in a stall
Alleviated courtesy
And nimbuses were free to all
Who sold the other cheek

I still can't spell, and I've got a dictionary to prove it.