Complex of Ideas

Complex of ideas My hands smell like wood and, as I shout for a beginning, I pull myself out of me. The laughter is shaking inside, it slips from head to foot and climbs… I’m a young old man, for I have fed myself with old age… That is why I have muscles so loquacious, so wise, so mild… I always knew that love means whisper, smile, black and white… So what that I wear with me this complex of ideas like marsupials wear their young?