Any excuse for a waste

It's now.
I'm living my great times. I experience the glory. Looking at my after-death-fame alive. Ending my great times. Opposite my window, she's hung clothes out to dry. "You're what I'd ask for." "I'm much less to know."  It's raining, your clothes will crumble and weep. I look back in. That's what I change here, the up and down of the chest while breathing, the up and down of the eyelids and the blankets on the bed
one day, made in perfect
next day, stained
I'm living my great times. And it's not starting all over, it's not going anywhere. I'm stuck in my great times, watching lies and humans getting born, and they both slip outside your mouths and vaginas so easy

don't you boast about your motives,

they're killing me,

and it's a real waste to kill a man at his greatest.

They're always so quick to judge

Half an hour later we got on. A smell of mud in the back of the throat. A smiling woman in front of me. And an eerie face on the other side. Sudden hint of soap on my tongue. The smiling woman wasn't really smiling. Her expression was stuck. Dirty hands, heavy hands. I only hurt with my hands.
Cramming my mouth with mud,

I'm preparing myself for the month of the cracked.

Fanfare for the common man

Nothing makes me alive, you say.
I've left my life.

I can hear your heart
beat

I can hear your heartbeat

I will thank the rest, thank the others;
that's how you leave your life.

That's how (I suppose)
I'm leaving mine
for yours

-the great fanfaron
-

Neugeborene Bekanntschaft

Alles ist Lärm.
Die Ruhe die wir lieben
in der wir leben
ist der Lärm der anderen

Worte, worte
Wir verstehen uns.
Kein Wunder!