Who is Who

A pink band wraps round your eyeballs fainting your vision.
So you stop and paint it black to make it more like a heart-attack,
Instead of admitting the wrong choice of colour to bind
The image translated in opposite segments of neurons
Has been constructed by the Holy Spirit and you, who is who
Does not accept the intervention of interrogation

A brain is a brain but when you color it with past interrogation
There will come no feeling thrown up like a heart-attack
When you search for the mysterious potion pinching his vision.
There comes a period of a second of a meeting of neurons
When they come to agree and tell attraction who is who.
He will find in the course between you, the table, that to bind

Means more than oysters pinched with shells to bind
The flesh of what comes in open mouth not in interrogation
Rather in reflection on your own flesh under a heart-attack.
You were drunk, you the white wine, away from your vision.
What is wrong with putting to sleep a couple of neurons
And letting the man opposite you tell you who is who

In the Belgian restaurant where you cannot tell who is who
Because who you have in front of you takes up all your vision.
Cocktails is his suggestion following like a heart-attack
Rendering his approach all the more damaging to the neurons
Of your objective perception therefore you want to bind
Him and you in one capsule avoiding the interrogation

Of any reality check-up on a first date interrogation.
Isn’t it that he is clearer now than then against your vision?
The erupted question tortured your neurons
Ever since his one after the other cancellation like a heart-attack
Unexpected, sudden all the symptoms which bind
Your little breath into a premonition a demon WHO

Whispers like the short-glassed cocktail Who
Is he, where did you hide your ace of interrogation?
What have you learnt about his own vision?
Did you expect to malfunction for long without your neurons?
Do you think that it is so easy to bind
A man who is too young for a heart-attack

To happen. Love is not the interrogation
of one’s neurons, he explains in the game of erotic vision
once you bind, knowing not the reason, the attack on your heart
will tell you I am the one accused of treason.