My mother,
pulled the trigger over my head,
leaving deep patterns of blue,
motionless artefacts,
resembling fountains of lost youths…
Amber, left cold,
around pavement stones,
imagined every night by owls
guarding flickering souls,
hiding behind shadowless candles.
Darren, open the window, my son,
and let us dance,
like none of us has ever danced, before
legions of merchants might have lost
every heart of Venice…
Damaged goods,
need no re-packaging before midnight;
lazy mail deliverers
might be chasing toothless cogs
around clocks,
never showing northern lights.
On each and every envelope,
our DNA tells the true story
behind the empty meaning
of printed feelings…
THEORETICAL PHILOSOPHY 