The Windmills In My Living Room

The Windmills In My Living Room

Midday is unkind.

The vulgar king of the celestial marbles

invites his dancers to gatecrash my curtains.

They are already in ,

the flutes , the jokery hats,

the dreams that defy gravity,

the dreams that defy order,

they take shape in glass.

Blow the windmills

with the swift breeze of radical ideas.

Cut this world's incapability to pieces.

Build a pyre and celebrate all that is unexpected.

With light hands offer ashes to the valley.

Offer the breath to turn the mighty cross of the windmills.

Bring me the naked girls

and blend them with me Satyrs.

Bring me the saltiness of her inner labia,

bring the blood of the martyrs.

In my swirl I am fond of the wheel

In my will I am a junky of the thrill.

Speak to me of your miracles.

Of your hidden poems

that are stung in the tapestry.

Of your horrors and your stand.

Of the few hair sof young boys

you caress with your hand.

Speak to me, Will I ever be happy?

Or be sentenced to being merely glad?

Finally tell me -

Will you leave your dress at the door?

Will you tell me what your perfume is for?

If I offered less and I am not mistaken,

soon you are returning to ask me for more.

Will you dance for me really?

Invite colours and invite all the gestures and moves

the likes of me never understood-

Do you like this place?

I am building Windmills for years to come.

If you like to possess , well I can sell you some.

But will you dance for me really?

Asking it repeatedly makes me utterly silly.

But I am having this feeling

that you soon will be killing

all the wonders and creatures

that rest under the windmills in my living room.