| White white are the clouds. White white is the mouse. White white is the Hour of mourning seashells every step you take. White as white as the teeth in his mouth. White as the cursing clouds by night. I can tell you one thing. Tell you one thing. One thing. One. And the man is in his house. And the man is in his house. And the man lies or sits or sleeps or does things in his house. The white man in his little house. His white little house. We can't see him anymore. Man, the man is gone. We see a bit of ocean. He is now in his patch of sea where we, where we, where, where we all, where we, all, we, we, where all. In our house. Body house. His house. Where man/woman in his/her house, own house, a a a a b b b b c c c c d d d d e e e e f f f f g g g g keep on going. For how long? Till there is nothing left to say in our house of flesh 'n blood. Comb your roof. Comb your hair. Comb your roof, your hair. Your mouth the frontdoor. Come though that door. Your door of flesh and blood. << 25 July 2006 |