Norwegian Dreamworks 7

April 4th, 2015

For the warrior one thing to love, so she does not tear it all apart.
For the lover one thing to fight for, so he does not whore it all out.

For me, to find three girls of the dream, with the sweetest lips, in need of tasting the salty ones – from work and the white crystals of seashore rocks. To kiss three soft opening of the mouths, to feel hardship  forget its fate. Split the rock, extract the crystals – I place the history of being alone on the petals of your tongues. Suck it, melt the salt, swallow the days and nights of wandering by sea, devour my fate, drown me in the waters of the spring sugar. Don’t ask my name, I will be gone by the time of the question mark. Burn into me the memory of sweetness, which I won’t manage to sweat out, even if I go far into the shadowed shored, where, now fateless, I will fall asleep surrounded by black clouds, the sweet trinity having descended upon me. My loneliness, now diminished and shared, will have found a better home, one with the srawberry doors. During the time of uneasiness and disquiet, unable to sleep, I will lick my lips, and through the salt dust touching my tongue I will enter the kingdom there are no names, signs or annal registers for. Just exactly eight folds of the flesh, that, driven by curiosity, have found something that one only dreams of.

For a dreamer, one door to bypass the alertness of life.
For the living, to dream to dream to dream.


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