Whole
It’s kind of strange
what you’re leaving when you’re moving;
holes in walls;
from paintings & pictures,
shelves & mirrors.
holes in walls
bodies in holes
holes in heads.
you leave an empty space
nothing can fit
except glue & paste.
tapestry may covers them up
but it’s just a make-up
they’res till there
although you couldn’t see
there is still a rhythm
and a beat and a drum
you are getting deaf and dumb
sticks in your hall of fame
auotgraphs you also collect
but yours is not worth
for me.
you are only a hole- ogramme
with your make-up-tears,
painted on your face,
a map of feelings
underneath it all.
never there to be seen,
never wanted to be caught.
