Bittersweet poetry why you call me at night
Sleeping just to make me ***** your holy ink.

Bittersweet poetry I'm only a child let me be
Don't mess this innocence you don't know.

All right I'm as innocent as you
Let me at least hold my breath
And after my bleed in thy honor, rest.

Burn ancient burn on the sweet child's
Eyes
For he has yet to conquer the world
And his father's rhymes.
He won't rhyme though he is free
And like all free men
The ancient roar will smile in his face
                            Pure as a flower
                                    Proud as the sun
                                              Soft as the rain.

Electrifying like a brainwave
He shall surpass his fathers
And build his own empire
                        Where he shall perish
Yet free as his son too will be,
Dreaming in clouds of fire.

The fresh paint leaks
It is not a painting
Naked in bed.

Absence is the name we give to things which are always there
Places people memories and jokes turned sorrow
To the same man's eyes.

They keep poking and getting toes to scratch the calf
And head to explode in a bursting shooting of images
                       And smells
                                 And touches
                                          And sensations you never knew you had.

Absence is the dread-full page
                          Of a poem written
                                   Laying on a dead man's face.

That moment
When her lips are your favourite lollipop
And her skin tastes like ice cream melting in your tongue,
The flavour drools godly juice.

That moment when the rythm are two beating hearts,
The winds outside take over
And you take shelter sheltering her.

The shrines of power ask every citizen for a dime.
Monumental, omnipowerful yet always needy-greedy
Minions, minions help them out!

Careless, conventional and extra-conservative they shout:
'Extra! Extra! Drop your money, you'll be richer!'
'Put your money on the shrine, mumbo-jumbo'll save your life!'

It won't save your sanity though.

Each lives inside everyone;

We have little versions of others  pumping hearts
Sharing words with us;
An image, well more than that,
                           It's as if each one
                           Was a poem, a half-living poetry in motion
                           And it's good to talk with those.

Yet sometimes I have to put them all out to sleep,
Sometimes I need a moment with the dark.