WastewaterI always remember you enjoying gasping:
Your movement was marked by a succession of colourful rags,
by trails of water and wastewater,
dreams and wastedreams
You came back to talk to me about the good old days.
Always with your famous joyful melancholy,
Looking at you from a distance, you made me think of a child holding a shotgun.
Once again a carefree pessimist,
A cold blooded tropical batterfly.
For one thing I am certain:
When I dream of you, I always wake up feeling in a good mood
Although a bit stiff.