Berlin 1998, paintings, poetry and music by Shannon Michael Terry

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Its feeding time


And the fork rests on the tip of my tong


I have gorged
No moor is innocence
No moor is playfulness
My skin is chapeded from the cold wind
I am a graveyard
An empty tomb
I want to eat
but I cant

The colors are but one

My branches are bare
I am a fire-breathing dragon
resting inside my self

Give me an easy chair by the window any day

The black Coal walks the stairs
and heats my furnace
As I bath in my semen

The delicate woods I cherish are no moor

Bamboo gourd
Splintered fragments
As I learn to walk on streets
made of ice

I am not the sound I used to be
My sound
And rejected

It was like a mouse
crawling back into its hole

I sleep in a tomb
Every were its warm
except here

The walls wash over me and crash into the ceiling

The colors are but one
And the faces they match the wind

I have been fattened on isolation
And im craving the fiestas of my past

Will the emperors please stand
and make them selves present

Stand so I can see the tears 
wash your cheeks

Stand and face the wall that seals your tomb

Play me song of fifty men chanting at the moon
There voices like the roots of a tree

Take of your crown
And throw it to the peasants
and take your leave to the cheap seats
And watch with wide eyes
as my cock gets the best of me

the colors are but one
and the sounds I do not understand

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