Pitched off a shelf and into a turmoil of noise Iam a book no one has read and the steam approaches. The floor is wet Tinkerbells sing sweat Hair droops, and slowly pace mounts to walls Paste rhythms slide by water and smoke Brown clothes rentful smell down the bucket of blues The well of tears be broken and The jazz man hums to tunes of broken hearts and missed trains Unforgotten sounds The tears of the well be broken Drought of no water No riot The sound is stilled Brief memory of time Rhythms paste to the walls and slow motion dancers beckon from afar tossed heads and jowls ablaze with slime frothed mouths signifying nothing A good time in a small life Too still, the waters Dry, droughted dancers They thirst for reason perhaps they find it reckon it dance with it motion to it to come and it might To still the waters Dry, droughted riden-dancers Thirst for the speech of the whining guitar ' who sings to them from across the road of barbed wire White noise for the helpless drowning of the people save them from exhaustion Dry, droughted dancers spin spin spin Flail Dry, droughted dancers Pleasures unknown to the drum- ming of the beats Dry, droughted lovers at the dancers’ feet. L. Sirmul Hello my dear, It has been so terribly iong since I have held you, felt the dispersion of heat from our bodies intermingle into an energy sip titind any pain that embeds itself into our flesh. I was truly at my home, with you. It is easy to be strong, so simple to be cold; and as one stays strong, getting colder, it then becomes harder to remove the pain. The pain perpetuates coldness, strength...where is my home now? The nomad has a house of pain - painful joy and time that cannot exist because it is instantaneous. There is no friction and no light, no warmth in endless time. Occasionally a ray or two finds a way through the gray - but being cloudy the nomad is suspicious, and the possibility fades back to gray. Squinting into the sky it is difficult to see the source, who can you trust who can you believe? I don’t know if it is as simple as trust, I think it may even be impossible to give your soul more than one soul more than once..... who has more than one soul? So J wander looking for my schizophrenia, my other self, my new self. I’m trying to find it in a new place. I wonder how far to wander, because my strength is very great, and J can only expect my strength - if it grows stronger than me, that it will kill me. I will find my home. Death is not the inverse of life, it is just another home. A place for my soul - I may already be dead, if my soul is at home with you. So I wander looking for my schizophrenia and J have become quite strong. The nomad shows no pain be- cause the nomad is very strong. What I wonder, I am curious how long before my strength is too great. It drives me from my home, isolates me to conquer me. I am isolated. Iam very cold. | haven’t had your warmth for so long. I will always remember . . . . until I find my schizophrenia. Even then=who0sknoOws:..... 2.004 5 cow I love you. Ivan Metropolis - 1995 ~ ita 2 = ts, tah neste Ys Pitched off a shelf and into a turmoil of noise Tam a book no one has read and the steam approaches. The floor is wet Tinkerbells sing sweat Hair drops, and slowly ace mounts to walls Paste rhythms slide by water and smoke Brown clothes rentful smell down the bucket of blues The well of tears be broken and The jazz man hums to tunes of broken hearts and missed trains Unforgotten sounds The tears of the well be broken Drought of no water No riot The sound is stilled Brief memory of time Rhythms paste to the walls and slow motion dancers beckon from afar tossed heads and jowls ablaze with slime frothed mouths signifying nothing A good time in a small life Too still, the waters Dry, droughted dancers They thirst for reason perhaps they find it reckon it dance with it motion to it to come and it might To still the waters Dry, droughted riden dancers Thirst for the speech of the whining guitar ‘who sings to them from across the road of barbed wire White noise for the helpless drowning of the people save them from exhaustion Dry, droughted dancers spin spin spin Flail Dry, droughted dancers Pleasures unknown to the drum- ming of the beats Dry, droughted lovers at the dancers’ feet. L Sirmul Hello my dear, It has been so terribly iong since I have held you, felt the dispersion of heat from our bodies intermingle into an energy soothing any pain that embeds itself into our flesh. Iwas truly at my home, with you. Itis easy to be strong, so simple to be cold; and as one stays strong, getting colder, it then becomes harder to remove the pain, The pain perpetuates coldness, strength...where is my home now? The nomad has a house Of pain - painful joy and time that cannot exist because itis instantaneous. There is no friction and no light, no warmth in endless time, Occasionally a ray or two finds a way through the gray but being cloudy the nomad is suspicious, and the possibility fades back to gray. Squinting into the sky itis difficult to see the source, who can you trust who can you believe? I don’t know if it is as simple as trust, I think it may even be impossible to give your soul more than one soul more than one who has more than one soul? So I wander looking for my schizophrenia, my other self, my new self. I'm trying to find it in a new place. Twonder how far to wander, because my strength is very great, and I can only expect my strength - if it grows stronger than me, that it will kill me, Iwill find my home. Death is not the inverse of life, itis just another home. A place for my soul -I may already be dead, if my soul is at home with you. So I wander looking for my schizophrenia and I have become quite strong. The nomad shows no pain be- ‘cause the nomad is very strong. What I wonder, I am curious how long before my strength is too great. Itdrives me from my home, isolates me to conquer me. Iam isolated. 1am very cold. 1 haven't had your warmth for so long. 1 will always remember . ... until I find my schizophrenia, Even then, who knows Hove you. Ivan Metropolis - 1995