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

there she hangs
my most appealing branch
bonding with a full-grown oak tree
what a fine firm fit

she enjoyed splendid foothold
one could say
according to her blooming children
far from decay

and her healthy membrane
enveloping the sturdy stem
that no wind can shake
silently screaming

pick me, pick me!
fine
I will pick you
as long as you promise me
one last time
that you will stay
firm
never let go
so I can
fit
like my head in god's bulge

as I hoist myself onto oblivion’s clasp
into the deadliest of heavens
I’m tired
untie
when you find me
untie

tedious tardy sleeps are the latest commodity
my advisor‘s eulogized,
though I have dealt with it
for as long as ever.

since I do that exceedingly well.
just once I’d wish to sink into bed,
shut my eyes for a shielded moment,
and find myself revived afterwards.

perhaps my life is
too cluttered with uncertainties,
so my bedlam body unlearned to be happy.

instead, a high demand of despondency
is expected to be appeased by
the insomniac stakeholders of my remains.

I have found her
I finally found her
the distinct enchanting singing
which allures even the
perpetually frightened birds
to her crimson magnet lips.

once in it, there is no return
once in it, you wouldn't want to return anyway.
where the beads evaporate
through the dulcet clouds
only to fall onto your rampant seas again

she eludes nature
yet still acts in concert
befouls all my sorrows
So they cannot see ahead of me.

for what I love is rather bleak
unless it slips between the nets
of her silken mouth,
ensnaring my body
like the ever patly fog does
in the cold mid-spring morning.

I can't spot me, let alone her
I long to see her
but sharing the trait of a jolly sun
confines me to marvel her

'least I can hear the guiding caroling
leading my chained up limbs
to an old long farscaped gate
proliferated with strong green tendrils
that took such good care of it
as if they knew, that I would arrive

one day

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

yummy.
burned me with a stick today,
smelled like smoky ribs
on a lovely sunday morning pan.

the pain on the pan
sizzled the other pain away.
well done,
as I fancy the most.

instead, they send me a glow of esperance
and expounding answers through the back of fireflies
which I now must entrap for further examination
like a sterile entomologist milling around
in the someday

blazing with unbridled wrath
the reason barred by all gods
only at nightfall disclosed
within my grasp but in the somewhere

preferably after the daytime shadows
have fueled my will in the antrum
a modest perishing cold revives splendidly
and I awake by the sound of my rumbles
from what seems to be one oblivious moment of eternity now

I swing an idly leg of my dented bed
pull the other inanimate carrier behind
she's here, whenever the eyes open
this time far back in the mirror right across
that stares back at me with those withered and dilated eyes
underneath two unilluminated crescents
uncertain, if she sobs or smiles
the night is nigh, better hurry

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

the burden on my shoulders
carries me aweigh
charcoaled molding hookers
rotting in the sea

ridding brace from the eldest
granting my last reprieve
and on behalf of myself
let me try to sleep

I won't rise from the dead anymore
for you did not discern me
and all my highnesses are expelled in the blue
so maybe one day they will understand

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.

In the aisle air lies the smell of honesty from filthy hands
Along lurks deceit in subtle stance
One evolved from hardly reaped beans
The other is sprayed by gloves in billious-green

And so they dance around the weary noses
Eager and revulsion awaited to be ****** in
One's scared of exposure
The other of sin

An illusionistic pas de deux
The people overly drained to grasp
And they never will

Or will they?
I will be waiting for the epiphany
Until the birds cease to fly

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

instead they send me a glow of esperance
and expounding answers through the back of fireflies
which I now must entrap for further examination
like a sterile entomologist milling around
in the someday

blazing with unbridled wrath
the reason barred by all gods
only at nightfall disclosed
within my grasp but in the somewhere

preferably after the daytime shadows
have fueled my will in the antrum
a modest perishing cold revives splendidly
and I awake by the sound of my rumbles
from what seems to be one oblivious moment of eternity now

so I swing an idly leg of my dented bed
pull the other inanimate carrier behind
she's here, whenever the eyes open
this time far back in the mirror right across
that stares back at me with those wizend and dilated eyes
underneath two unilluminated crescents
uncertain, if she sobs or smiles
the night is nigh, better hurry

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

spread the word
we, who you shall never see
have landed on your grieving
and poorly sculpted land
we, who you shall always seek
have taken our mighty tools with us
a humankind worth

to patch up the bursted leaks
from the excess bloods
that you have spilled for us
to stomp down the shielding walls
that you have built for us
against all those infidels

no more impotent convictions
you may ring the bells
now that we are here
the indomitable truth shall be proclaimed

for every single cell
of you chapped skins
will bow down, knee-deep
among the carcasses of the self-appointed saints
and deeper and deeper

until you hear the wind of desolation
rampaging over our seas
and your ridding threnodies
in the hallways of the earth

you are what others think and thought.
They could be lavished with the freshest water
and still dislike the abundant taste,
make you do the same.

and if they lived in a
never ending snowing biom,
freezing their atrophying minds into the
cryoconserved likeness of eternity,
declaring this fool's action
a foolproof veritable gulp
of their besotted wisdom.
Would you do the same?

Even if you disdained the snow?
Who made you disdain the snow?
Would you have been on a fool's errand,
if you finally arrived there
or would you have been
on a palmy journey of a righteous congruence?

Who are you, the one of the others?
Are you one, or the others?

So many are
lynched on a warp
weaved by anyone except themselves
sinking into oblivion
might as well die up to it.