Moving on.

I'm moving,
more a stutter really
from a world of blu-tak
and impermanent fittings. Walls.
I don't steal spoons either. No more.

Quite frankly dear, I'm
leaving the angels behind.
They gave all this stuff, you see,
enough to keep me going.
Like a mother's love is training.

A kind of gift, strange,
some think, that after all my spit
they'd still feel so about me.
Found me, I guess
that's important.

It's technology, honey. It's
loving the digits, loving
all the things I programmed in. 
Computers. They're important, you know.

Truly,
we humans do music good, don't we?
Better than those bloody Paladies.
We can sing and dance, sing and heal, Yeah!
I'm just loving, doing this life thing, baby.


Cor, March 2001