‘a black dog runs at night.’
barks and bellows and stumbles under bright moonlight.
dizzy, the stars do guide him,
listening to his outcries and mournful plights.
his footsteps, gentle like spaces randomly left in between unknown places.
where dawn endlessly rests as if never came sunset.
tracing his own way back in fearful fright of what may come by sudden surprise.
a horrifyingly surreal journey starts at it’s origin.
with a tortured black dog infinitley living as an unfaithful victim,
betrayed by his majesty, she whom is named ‘time’.
We broke up, however though we haven’t met.
We played scrabble and lost the alphabet.
I shared my dreams to give you insight.
You rejected my heart and broke me twice.
I offered my chest to give you warmth,
But you stood there cold like a stone.
Your body rattled like bees with firearms.
Your gaze empty like after killing someone?
i shouldn’t lest i did.
windy days, enormous nights.
bodies shaking, breaking tides.
sweat dripping, never stop.
down the drain and out again.
back from hell, lost weight.
there, out of shotgun shells babies were made.
then stopped believing lies told by dazzled eyes.
caught up with what from now on i should call ‘my life’.
Can’t sleep.
Sleep is like the hand that keeps him from breathing.
Breathing in, in soft hums somewhere lonely in the distance.
Distance makes him feel numb.
Numb like a hand that’s limp-wristed.
Limp-wristed like ghosts who lost theirs in former lives.
Lives dispensed of loneliness and rest.
Rest that he seeks so desperately.
Desperately as the birds sing when the sun rises.
Rises to crush his longings.
Longings he’s damned to have.
Have sleep is what he can’t.
When you flush everything’s gone, everything.
Some say toilets are as neutral as milk of a mother’s breast. When you’re in one of these small cabinets you’re alone, except for yourself. So how do you treat these walls, sometimes not even blank? What do you do with them? What do you do?
Als PDF ansehen…
I want to dig deep into the moat
A cutout heart dies faster than a real one broke
Solely captivated in that bed of mud
Dead, though covered like in a field of rosebuds
Angels dawn on me like luring vultures
Divine I lie there, broken like an antique sculpture
A crippled tree there finally grows
To show that I died of an overdose.
I liked the sound of the moon. The sound which noone could hear.
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“Life comes…” he thinks, billions of red threads dangling around his head just like memories flashing through his mind.
They make him feel dizzy, resemble what he believes in as himself being trapped in his mind, or rather wrapped up in cosy but itchy thin red wool. It reminds him of the extraordinary baby blanket he used to lie in, colourful and warm, stricken with memories of carelessness. “Start to count them! Start, now – recount”, he keeps replying to the blank white walls, his undemanding audience. Even if they could answer, he would never expect them to. He doesn’t want them to. He likes them to be silent spectators, bearing similarity to him as a youth.
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You want to be a star? Yes, one big shiny star constantly posing with a gorgeous smile on and reflecting flashlights, hundreds per second, equal to stroboscopes sending out a blinding light that makes people itch with its nauseating presence while they smile like lunatics and keep up their weird dances?
Als PDF lesen…
