there was a penguin. 'penguins don't fly', so he heard, 'at least not here where penguins are.' a penguin was dying to fly, to try to fly. 'not here.' 'not here it is then,' thought a penguin, 'it is not a good place to fly, here where penguins are.' some other penguins thought they fly. for fun or for real, they thought they do. stumbled to the top of the hill, tummies foreplaying with the ice. the rubbing became faster and faster, faster and faster. stiff and long, a final penetration into the intense moisture. they thought this was it. 'so let them think it is then,' thought a penguin, 'it is not a good place, here where penguins are.' so a diamond was where a penguin was. 'how did you get here,' wondered a penguin and a diamond. 'how did i get here,' wondered both. sixty and six thousand feet under, together buried. a broken diamond, a broken penguin, a broken wish and a broken wish.
a star follows an orbit. most of the stars follow orbits. all stars follow orbits. no. only most. some stars do not even move. like a sun, worshiped by thousands and loathed by one and the only one itself. endlessly, almost endlessly pinned at one spot having so much rage, love and hate to let go of. but. worse than a stone bedded in soil, a sun is bedded in nothing yet it moves not. so a penguin sailed. flipper, feet, flipper, feet, gasp, flipper, feet.
it was going to rain. a penguin did not see the sun anymore. the cloud was lowering to a point where it all became ridiculous. an albatross. a penguin wanted to fly like an albatross. flipper, rock, feet, rock, blood, gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp, flipper, rock, head, rock, feet, blood, gasp, gasp, flipper, feet, rock, blood, blood, bloogasp, cliff edge. a sun did not like icarus. but a penguin's wish was granted. a stone was set on the sling. there it went, high up in the blues, among the whites, towards the black and spotty. so a star followed an orbit. a star and an orbit danced. a star followed. a star loved. a star could not care less in the end. about six hundred and six thousand years later a penguin a star left. quite a record- it usually takes perpetual eternity. cruising in the spotty black, breaking in the misty and burning, a penguin burnt.
shattered, the pieces found each other slowly. over the fences, under the pavement, across the borders, above the sewage. tight, buried deep in the weather. tightened even more for seventy thousand years a penguin which wanted to fly is afterall the same as an icarus with real wings, and what is the difference between those and a star that follows no orbits and a diamond buried six and six and six more feet under waiting to deplete or be found, whichever comes first. more pressure and a metamorphosis. uncanny nutrients for a seed eaten by a penguin before it wanted to fly. a seed which made the desire to fly so vivid, so unreignable . nobody cried for a burnt penguin but rain. a seed deep in the soil, a diamond turned nutrients, a drop of unsympathetic tear.
the black orchid with blue veins and red stems. how did you get here?
