Coloured pencils, cigarettes,    postcards, a burn deep in the flesh.    An affection towards old photography.   The words that explain history.    The meaning of the mother tongue    written in concrete all along,    red skin from salt water winds.    Seashell houses, a distant ring    is telling me constantly    i’m drowning in the language   of good memories.       Comic books and songs that sound    like stomping your feet on the ground    and howling at a painted moon    in a picture book in the afternoon    right before teenage tabloid press    in the back of the car with arms outstretched    across a rugged and rocky coast,    it looks so small with one eye closed    but grows as i grow every year,    there’s a whisper in the atmosphere    and i learn and learn as i repeat,   i am drowning in the language of good memories.       Flower patterns on the walls,    the smell of summer down the hall,   a story to everything there is.    Cut-off heads and doors in crooked trees.    Plastic bags for plastic food,    i am pale with a smirk under the hood.    I feel like a bird on a leash    but right now it’s good enough for me.    here’s the church and here’s the steeple,    open the door and see all the people.    Close the door and hear them pray,    turn around and walk away.    There’s rain and fog out on the sea    and i am drowning in the language of good memories.   There’s rain and fog out on the sea    and i am drowning in the language of good memories.