our ghosts may forever turn in monsters

but we will not once break free from our stone-made bonds

First went the mother, then went the daughter

the rhythm was by no means fair but what is

20 years exchanged for a couple of months

they reside under the belly of the village

between the steep hills, the heavy clouds

surrounded by tall trees and buildings

when you breathe you breathe thick there

however all is thinner, less visible, silent, cold

embraced by the neighborhoods and progress

the roar of the moving atmosphere from my window

the seething in my chest, the dust under the seat

they call every expedition product of formality

stuffed in their Sunday clothes on Saturday

they'll all mourn over the parfumed pentanediamine of their dearest

days are falling back to their small

early night late morning early night late morning

early night late morning early night late morning

early night late morning early night late morning

they are far from gone they are diminished to our initial dust

from moving mass to moving mass to moving mass to stillness

quiet please

I'm listening to the roar of the moving atmosphere from my window

the seething in my chest, the dust under every piece 

the million faces of bad violence.

Manche Männer haben mir die Lues angesteckt

manche lachten, manche nein

heute lauf ich herum

meine Rückenmarkschwindsucht schreit um ihr Leben

was für eine Heldentat

was für eine

mit dem Medikament

kann nun ja alles geheilt werden

Conscience

we're ending up in the

-

the walls against themselves

they twist

-

the thousands contacts; they count exactly for the thousands they are

if they were kind enough they would claim time would cure every integrated sum

but no

the thousands contacts remain the thousands they are and nothing

-

rainy summer asphalts

closed windows and the white shirt behind the twisting walls

a lifetime dedicated a lifetime left and hoarse corrosive

hell

-

smooth slippery memories created out of my phantom past

rainy summer asphalts

deep northern nights

the cold wind of September with the parks lit up in bloom

denim coverage of the designed life

-

we're ending up in the

conscience

and the bullshit that flies out of my mouth and hands

and ass.

and you will fear death not

after all those transparent lukewarm sips

so many, even my finger looks like a maiden

the pale rose petals I baked

are pale enough to make me sick

and be sold as love

walk the stairs up, walk them down

one step is granted

the wrong before you collapse

heat and moist more willing than the most

available and ready

fuck August

and you will fear death now

.