oh i want to go to russia.
in the wilderness of russia
north north north
where the sea begins.
i want to be ice.
with eyes of ice and a core of cold,
and drift through melted waters.
and want to be washed up in a million forms
on a shore devoid devoid devoid
frost white, pine green
monotony.
oh i want to go to france.
abandoned france
rivers of grass all yellow with sun
and smiles.
i want to be a windmill.
filled with sawdust and quiet
and serenity,
ancient and oaken and tall.
oh to turn forever, to
turn forever, to
turn,
forever.
to turn.
i want to go to spain
in a cloak of deep iberia
to be an endless train track
with a soul of lines
and metal electricity
to never move and always travel
to breathe.
to breathe.
to breathe.
i want to be in a strip of runway
on a mountaintop,
black and coated in roaring silence
in sweden.
i want to fall from airplanes
everywhere.
lace my elements, my body
through clouds as they scream.
i want to swell in tides
and swallow wooden barnacle towers
and run down slopes making mud,
made of rain,
and disintegrate.
and drift
and drift
and drift
as cornflower mist.
i want to be someplace
that hasn't been named.
i want to be without a name.
and be alone, of course.
be alone for a little while.
and be.
