poems back artist cataloque
The boredom of my dreams.
I was standing before my looking-glass,
Revealing, diluting my glance,
My ideas to hit eash other.
The bittlards balls
By the evening nothingness
Are breaking down the sticking plaster of sounds.
So, my alarm-clock
Gauntlu,grimly, like a sphinx,
Got to swallow and to scratch the skin of feelings.
There,s a limit in a pause.
Here're the midges of the highlights
Dashing up, and sunheat burning snows,
That is our past revolting
That is breathing opf our sleeping dream.
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