all my blackbirds sing for me
and all my friends arrived
roses bloom above my head
a fine place to reside

lacrimal gush under vails will remedy
promises always lie
pain will tell the journey
trenched the soil to reach the sky

all my blackbirds stopped to sing
for they are no more
all my friends left the same
and all the roses wilt in dirt

I've been reckoned as a coward
they will never see what I saw
and all my songs will stay unsung
and all my songs will stay unsung

as of tonight I am one with the stars
a glass splinter of many
meticulously distributed by the hand
that shattered the shining jar

nourished by the garlic half moon
peeled it off and
cut it into shape
for my marginal nocturnal treat

im here to disappear
a repeating onetime chance
what’s between shall remain as
a clasping ray to heaven‘s gate

somewhere down in paradise
born and bored alive
an unwilling smile of an outcast child
abide the day and cheer the night

And I’m not cured
I’ll do it again
‘til the morning aches and
the sun rises in the west.

all the turmoil inside pacify
like a little combusting sun
that warms my body
in winter hardships and
cools my mind on a blue summer evening

when my vacant stare catches the delicate rills
as they incinerate out of existence
one by one like incense into the holy skies
until the only light serves my needs

harmful habits do me good
what a doleful commentary on my life

just like my eyes hurt, whenever I venture
a step outside my antrum

so they do, whenever I look at you.
and when I shut my eyes, the sun is gone

your eyes still pierce through
rebellious daughter of Midas

you turned your left wing into gold
of what avail is the other one now?

and your heart that glistens
oh what price you have paid

I pull, I pull
it’s a starry, gloomy night
the stars gaze above my steaming head
but they don’t shine for me

while I stand at a sea
a sable, sludgy, shining sea
reflecting the stars
that don’t shine for me

I pull and I pull
something resists, the mildewed thread quivers
a hand, scar-strewn, thin and exanimately pallid
i wonder where she summones the strength

maybe I’m just a weak man
when a faint, scratchy voice calls me
among afloating bubbles
tells me to release

he runs and runs
away from invisible enemies,
settles for a wide street corner eventually
enters heavily gasping a small café.

the abdominals are ripped from all the coughing.
the swiftly waitress realizes that,
as he orders a cup of black coffee.
she asks him, if it was a fine sporting day,
with a wide, plainly sinister smirk.

confused as he was, he gives her an absent nod,
in hope to leave him alone and serve that **** coffee.
at least he found an excellent spot
covered on a stakeout for his own death.

the street on the left, called Void Street,
seems pretty occupied
but shows no sign of the ambitious hitmen.
on his right lies Paradise Avenue,
emptied and distilled of silence

still nervous he bites his fingers,
although no nails are attached to them anymore
so he ***** the angst dry
like a skint man does with the tip of his last wrinkled cigarette,
that he found in one of his forgotten jacket pockets

safe space now,
he reckons,
only to have his throat cut