is to exercise the swelling of your lungs,
little balloons shape its lining
like an interior designer dancing in the palace of the Tsar.
I am the Tsar. I am the heir of nothing in particular.
Some men have mediocrity thrust upon them;
men who looked at the sky
and were saddened by the stars
of night and light and the half-light.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams.
Tudo no mundo começou com um sim. Uma molécula disse sim a outra molécula e nasceu a vida.
I’ve seen it happen in other people’s lives and now it’s happened in mine -
six billion, seven hundred million Giraffes inhabit this world.
To the precious pressures in my lungs:
I’ve given you all and now I am nothing.
Indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition
like moonlight on a midnight stream
giving grace and truth to life’s unquiet dream.
Poem written out of a combination of my own words and that of The Smiths, Joseph Heller, William Butler Yeats, Clarice Lispector, Allen Ginsberg, William Shakespeare and Percy Bysshe Shelley.