The island creations

Be free when ur trapped, she said As a child she drew a flower, butterfly. A pirate and his gun spoiled the party. Blood from her lips felt at the purple words. Only a nervous red line knew the meaning of his existence. Who’s my creator and why isn’t it water? The lines on my painting are alive, they tell where they want to be, how thick and which colour. Childlike today. Tea in teapot says hi to babybook. Things speak, have meaning, are created. In trashcan, on stage, in a book, on the fuckin wall. Clean the dead bugs on the white wall otherwise we have to paint. Words are dead flowers in a glassy vase. For 5 dollar there is paper, paint and brushes. I paint on vacation where flows overcome me, as long as I paint or write it flows. I won’t sleep for 3 days now, waking up in the morning. Be in a 5th D stage. There are times I write, sometimes I make sound. Wind blows and blows me away. I fly in thick air, it’s the mood from yesterday that has me in his power. I charmed myself, and now I am the little paper of a candy. 12 numbers on the clock, disappear in 1. Now I am a creator for once and for all. I tell it to stop, to freeze them all like images and statues of ice. I am in the swamp, looking for mushrooms. Green dots, the mariobrothers. Like my green sweater with white dots. I am a girl now. I once was it all and today I am here in this body. 10 fingers to count the endless days. Instant satisfaction. The energy of the moon is recharged in my little toe. My big toe calls Saturn’s to light the one and only tree that has the answer to why I am here. Tree, tree, little tree, that stands trough rain and sun, that lives trough the seasons in grace. People pee at trees sometimes. Tree house where I used to rest. A soup of words now. Tomatoes, basilica, sage and peppermint. From my garden of herbs. I do nothing. I am and I do. Red dots and white. Blue dolphin. Blanket. 100th of visions what and how. Blue prints of houses. Bout diagrams and the letter pi, Omega and the alpha, the 2, the phonebook, paintings, 300 titles for a book, new stores, a factory. Enough food for us all. Flowers, and how to create new ones. The breeding of a species, how to fix the wheel of my bike, rechargeable batteries. Why organic grocery stores smell. How to be rich, a wooden table. Let me just walk in the park. Closing my eyes, walking in a beat of a cool poem I make up as I feel the water nearby. So called gifts in te freezer, fuck misses I have good grades and spit on assy projects and inventions. Fuck the speed of light. Only art now. Only nice. No more ambition please. Not a list of used books or quotes. I am myself and that’s it. That’s it. Me and myself dancing on the grass, a projection of how a black poppy grows in sepia on the big screen. There is no glue needed between these words, no red line, a guide or a how to. Meet me in the dark in a small street next to a pub. Smell the beer in the dark. Jump on the back of my bike to my home. See my walls covered in clouds. Feel the soft pillows, read the poems that are everywhere. I am a piece of art. My own concept The creator of my life. The master of myself. A Superstar* I am a superstar and you are the last step I needed to climb on the ladder where I put my name. little stars show me the way, trough letters, papers and some clay. There it says: Welcome home, darling.

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