my feet are ******* *****
a little bit of mud
a little bit of sand
a little bit of grass
I’m soaking them
in the sea of Tranquility

one box is from Portugal
one firm box from France
it’s just clinking
last two left

guardians of the boat
are having a break
sweat running down
of their faces
eyes hypnotized
and the wind
is like a paradise
of their grey hair

I’m slowly reading
a book by Bukowski
and I can see
sometimes
you got so alone at times
that it just makes sense
yeah
and three times yeah

secretely I’m watching
those saint guardians
drying their sweating foreheads
calloused hands
you can’t bet anymore

the sun is falling back
into a furiously quiet nothigness
of the Universe
and innocent souls of the guardians
are forgotten in irritant darkness

the first half of boxes goes to the shops
the next one
they are gonna drink
and early in the morning
the night is fulfiled
with a ***** daylight

it’s getting dark
it’s cloudy
you can’t reach the stars

my mind
is full of pus
and so is yours
and **** everyone’s
but you can’t see it
just like the stars

I’m pouring myself a glass
and to her
to him
to you
and a quarter of a century
is ******* gone
midnight ravens
are sewing up themselves
in the corner

quiet your nasty
healthy mind
pour me
one more time
one more
raison d’etre
there’s never enough

but once when
we run out of it
we’ve still got some
l’eau de vie
you opened the window
of your ****** mind

maybe we’ll find out
once
what’s going on
who knows...

so they got him
just like us
they’ll got them all
anyway
earlier or later

I’m lighting my cigarette
and I’m watching the coffin
in the shadow of her feelings
pools of tears
everywhere around
and mugs and faces
all saddened and crooked
because that’s how
you divide people:
mugs and faces;
but sometimes
mugs are much more honest
and bitter-sweetly more beautiful
than usual beautiful faces

people wearing suits
too hot
when the sun’s shining
but the one down there
doesn’t care anymore,
does he?

so they got her
another one in the line
disobedient sinner
flying now
in a caravan of clouds
physically rotten worm food
worse than Baudelaire’s carcase
it they don’t burn her
and save her from
this humiliation
’cause nothing really matters
and everything is really important

and so they got another one
and another
and another
all these cold cooks
they’ll get them, too
one day
one day
just like a spider
got a dead fly
in its spiderweb

I’m scared of spiders
but sometimes
we need them

the coffin’s closed
the songs are quiet
they threw away all the paper tissues
salty just like Dead sea
life goes on
there’s no other way
ars longa; vita brevis