got it we have been waiting for, but which we dared not hope for, in a heartbeat. An SOS from a bygone era, a signal of life, a sign of the time that stands on the brink of its own navel, that hangs on the edge of reason the alter, staring towards the abyss with sunglasses. the
This via some postcards from his innermost archive, our old friend, the soul vandringsmann, the large frilansmennesket that we thought was lost in a jungle far away, but that is here, the Zodiac Silvano.
He always asks that we send three angels in the snow, send frostroser in the “cash on delivery” and gives him the smell of cocoa of the morning.
Zodiac also pray more money, more justice, replenishment, mark-up, a new hat, sunglasses, trekkpapir, silkevest and he also prays that all who write user manuals (like me) on the lives of others to stop this, NOW!
Zodiac writes that the following texts may be found in his collection of poems, “Epikrisemaksimering” on his own publishing company Sic Gloria Mundi, edition 4.
About the day I run without a helmet on a 1969 Harley Davidson Electra Glide down route 66. Pathetic with the ponytail. Born to be wild. I’m swimming with sharks and sleeping with snakes, hanging in a bungee from the top himmelskruen, earn money on everything and nothing, banks smooth up to five dummies on a closed down strip club.
On the nights I’m lying in the foetal position in a bedsit in the village.
On the day I go alone on skis toward the north Pole via the south pole, climb bare-chested to the highest peaks, throw me out in the strieste the river and catches the biggest salmon with my bare hands, no mouth. Rounds the Cape on the water skiing, the Goodbye on the board.
On the nights I’m lying under the bed on the his room I never got.
About the day picks I bananas, adopted truths, mango and hear the animals sing far, far inside. Stamklatrer to the top of all trees, flings me out in the frieste flight, lands on a bed of cats and hippos, lands on a quilt of nails, lying, and crocodiles.
during the nights I sit and stare out of the open window, in the ninth floor.
day runner I at 6500 meters, and talking with the Andes mountains, talk to the man in the moon, the princess of the stars and then towards the kondorens arsenal of wink.
On the nights I am led into the sterile room, placed in what I call my best friends, these tapes. No, don’t. Not.
