reddish pulsating
Bruising under the skin of the night just imploded
-residue-
limped to the gates of reality: there
the village celebrates a wedding,
- made another sacrifice-
between white veils and cherries
rolling on my tongue poisoned you run out of days.
A lion licking his paw.
am the fool of the desert and the desert of buffoons
I climbed on his chest.
Ah, humans are so proud
after every act of love, while I folded a
that shame is ashamed to belong.
remember when I buried my brother
madness to the gut?
You can not marry the mind
who wrote your order.
consume me,
and you suffered as a man, then you forgot
like a real man, and then
not thought about it more,
like a real man! And I
here
to fuck me again
the order of your existence,
and is not a clean job, you know,
you sweat in the desert at night.
A man sings in a cave.
on my leg bruised
dancing worms,
-my poems
reincarnated in putrid visions-
my tent orbit is far from life,
but I'm not dying.
E 'sweat of fate
what I hangs on the chin,
is he who is defeated last night in my tent
-European-
mausoleum of quackery is that he is buried;
I melt candle beside me,
as an ornament of an unknown ritual. The desert winds
I choked in my throat.
* this poem came to me in a dream-mute after a drink at the air field, but Jeff Buckley's music playing loudly and clearly.
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