A Message From The Ancient Mariner: Butterflies Are Lovely, But For Chrissake, Don’t TOUCH Them When

Man Ray by

@Mark Arbeit

Albert King “Angel Of Mercy”

The tide, I have it in the heart that goes back to me as a sign I die of my little sister, my childhood and my swan A boat, it depends how it is docked at the port of accuracy He cries from my firmament years of light and leaves me I am the fantasy jersey, the one who comes the night Throw the mist in kiss and pick you up in his rhymes Like the tremail of July where the lone wolf glowed The one I saw shining on the sand fingers of the earth

Remember this dog that we release on parole And who mouths in the desert of the greed of necropolis I'm sure life is there, with its flannel lungs When he cries of those times, the all-gray cold that calls us I remember the nights there and sprints won on the scum This drool of the horses ras, in the rock of the rocks which are consumed The angel of lost pleasures, rumors of another habit My desires, then, are only a sorrow of my loneliness

And the devil of the nights conquered with his helpers And the squale of paradises in the middle wet with moss Come back green girl from the fjords, come back violin violinades In the harbor, the horns are booming, for the comrades' return Ф rare scent of salting, in pepper fire crush When I went, my brain, my soul in the hollow of your wound In the mess of your ass, stuffed in fine dawn sheets I saw another stained glass, and you green girl, my spleen

Shells under sunlights, broken, liquid Play castanets as long as one looks like livid Spain Gods of granites, have pity on their vocation of adornment When the knife comes to interfere in their figure castanets And I saw what we feel when we press the glimpse Between the louvers of the blood and the globules appear A blue mathematics, on this ever-changing sea From where I go back little by little this memory of the stars

This rumor that comes from there, under the bow boyfriend where I blind myself Those hands that make me fla-fla, those ruminant hands that moo This rumor follows me a long time as a beggar under anathema Like the shadow that is wasting its time drawing my theorem And under my red makeup comes beating like a door This rumor that goes up, in the street, to dead music It's over, the sea is over, on the beach, the sandy beach Like sheep of infinity ... When the sea shepherdess calls me.

Léo Ferré - La mémoire et la mer