The beautiful views,
the ***,
the songs,
always living for the rush.

Connecting strong,
feeling deep,
traversing this old life ball.

Flying fast,
always between the sun and the moon,
never lost.

And the moon lights my back,
the sun shines on my face,
Bringing luck where ever I go.

I follow it like a shiny coin,
carrying the moon behind me like a balloon on a string,
my manic high.

Without warning,
another morning,
another mourning,
another contemplation
of our inundation,
our battle for our preservation.

Until death swallows us whole
and leaves behind only our bones
as a monument to our pain

The bones we hide so well in pretty boxes
6 feet underground.

Corpses in the carvery,
mouths watering with glee,
children running up and down,
one big happy family.
Daddy's having eisbein,
and mommas having roast,
there are innards on the burgers
and flesh smeared on the toast.

The smell of death hangs in the air,
it goes nice with the wine,
the music makes so elegant
the massacre they dine.
They stuff their bellies heavy,
the fat sits in their throats,
they're happy that they came again,
they grab their murdered coats.

So profound
is my passion
in this moment-
that I feel it echo
through eternity.

So strong
the pleasure and pain elixir-
that compels me
through this storm
to an unknown destination.

And I consider with pride,
all the sailors and lovers such as I,
my brothers and sisters,
who have persevered
against all reason and at great odds,
just to know what lies beyond,
even it it means just finding space.

The skin we are in

is first formed
then stretched
then dried and shrivelled
then decomposed
and eaten by worms.

Lasting beauty is a legacy,
not a face.

The last kiss,
the last touch,
the last smile,
the last tears,
the lost love.

Lost time,
regret,
we forget:

Only shadows of shadows remain.

Made for the monster
Played by the pauper
Aged by the sage
Loved by the lunatic
-it's neck broken by the *******.

Played before kings,
Sang shivers and dreams,
Was a woman
a lover
a poet
a thing...

Now waits
mounted
on a poor man's wall,
For a master
to recall:
the hidden,
the mystery,
the music-
its all in all.