Growing Up
my hands are getting lost in my running legs
our quivering lips are the only traces of our presence
unable to utter a complete word
something beautifull is wresting itself away,
something dazzingly starry, yet it vanishes formless into thin air
exhale inhale
we are becoming too weak for the conventions
that we have alway followed
those deep bows taking off our shoes before we enter
we feel different
rebel rebel chaos chaos
the white shirts feel comfortable they needn’t be couture
comfortable means being clean being ironed being pretty
yet the world is a short bed without a mattrace where you need to snuggle
which is why we run on all four in our white shirts
and sleep sprawled on the gravel
stretching into the beyond
our right hand in the indian ocean
our left leg in an asian desert
the other left leg in an african savannah
our soaking head in the northern sea
our nose plunged into a burning volcano
we smell of the starry infinity of the planctons
and are ready to be different