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mills & windmills

Alan Mills (2016)

Secrets like feathers inside your skin

Transformed into my own clothes

And here I proclaim Paradise is Hell, hot sublimity, Coming after me way before I reach the exit.

We beat our drums as if they were the head of the Ghost, We went inside the nonexistent body of the Ghost,

Don’t you feel it too?,

We stroll along a dream of scorched earth, We walk like an extravagant duck,

The flawless bird we will eventually be.

They say it is too easy to shoot a bird in a cage,

They say some desperate animals just forgot how to fly,

Thus our reason escapes slowly

And our feet run in circles after that lost possibility: We are now the nonexistent feet of the Ghost.

Let’s burn the wooden figurine we used to be,

We are no longer one forgotten saint placed in the Ghost

House,

A dark liar that exceeded the limits of our prayers

And considered our involvement as somewhat trivial.

It wasn’t a windmill, nor a millstone, nor a modern grist- mill:

We woke up inside the Mills family, A family name just like any other

Except we were the phantom limbs of this Ghost, I mean, of this Name.

We are the Spanish-speaking spooks,

We are trying to learn the language of our own family While some foreigners say our mother tongue will always be a translation.

Sometimes your name won’t rhyme with your face

 

So please don’t rail against reality

And accept your ancestors had sex wearing carnival masks,

‘Cause that’s how it rolls when Chaos is your only God And transgression is the secret encrypted in your genes. A flock of endless shadows go with the flow,

Comings and goings not fully understood in the Tropics, Ancient, buried, forgotten names are pulling the strings And sometimes you feel like a jack-in-the-box

They once dared to call Death.

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