long stories past gone.
a decadence full of decades in essence.
and a presence, oh poignant present.
i have not written the past because it aint' neccesary no more.
whether is that valuable ore, whore of deconditioned preachings. no gore.
i've been the one who has come back, back to back sore
and to the beginning again and again, like rabbits in the subway.
i dont rhyme just to make fun.
i dont believe in being hip.
i never learned to hop.
whether is because i pretend to be illiterate.
i came in thru the door. i said it before and again.
i speak with treacherous hands.
i saw the sun for tomorrow with bare hands.
miss the good'ol'days which i can even remember.
for now i give you my pencils.
my inks.au revoir, monseur perdu.