Feel the red curtain,
The night opens a discreet picture
That still chirps about the burned-down marching band
We can no longer forget.

Your eyes still speak of
    The boys in the black attire
    Girls in wedding dresses
    Abandoned mother in the perfume of war
    Wearing masks of serendipity
That were consumed by the flimsy fire

And talk of the devil,
Talk of the leader,

His dark eyes were set ablaze
And his heart on his sleeve
Half eaten out
The parade, though, kept marching along
With its beautiful brides and paper snow
In the dark and discreet night

I could not wake
The romance they inflincted
Between us who knew none of each other
But the ode I will be sending to your most loved parade no longer
Will never reach anyone neither carcasses nor night masses

So what will we get from our early midnight memory
We confronted before the sun went down?
   The songs chanted with death’s drum rolls
   The steps taken with dwarfed soles and melted eyes
   Or the love you could not relish for the boys in the black attire
                                                          ­           Girls in wedding dresses
                                       Abandoned mother in ******* serendipity
                                      Or for the marching band
                               That will never pass us again?

And here I lie,
But they bring memories like a festival
Under the moonlit night
Presenting the illness of romance between life and death

And here I love you,
My visions of the discreet night
The parade of the wrong and right
My carcass of the burning life
We try to live upon a single stroke
Of two-faced departure

And here you love me,
As only
A parade of paradox
Unforsaken

2 a.m. condolence center
The most helpful place for confounded heart
You may ask for suggestion or place an order
Good evengloom,
How can I help you?

Informations about this stack of hair,
Please, I have sent it to your office
It has lots of broken dreams
And is covered with sharp glasses
It’s amassed by wailing light

Would you like anything else?

When you are done,
Just pack them up for long-haul
Morning departure
In the same flight as the divorced ribbons
On the issue last week

Thank you.

Good evengloom,
2 a.m. condolence center
How can I help you?

I’d like a work of art, please
With streaks of blue blood
In the red paint that was made of dirt
You know, the one dipped into a glass of arsenic
Before the loom gloom september sleep

Just that, nothing else.

Good evengloom,
2 a.m. condolence center
How can I help you?

Show me your face, destroyer
Your half-witted face
Your scavenger scars
Do not hide behind the cords
Putting the mask of a saint

You are a sinner like we are
Grief your godforsaken
Condolence center

Anything else?

Just your half-tilted face,
Destroyer.
And I shall ask no more.

Good evergloom.
2 ante meridiem condolence center
How can I help you?

Shut the stars
And light up middays
We are fed up
Of your condolence center
Thank you

Thank you for your calls
We wish you a very goodnight.
From  your beloved two a.m. condolence center
Good evengloom,
good evergloom.

Water does not taste like milk





Leaf does not smell like silk




Trash is not equal to artsh




Writing is not tiring




Crying is of lying




Potato kills tomato




Love hurts laugh




Life does not lift




The answer to when




Is not forever

The young postman
Walked the midnight lane
Remembering the scent of lonely Gregory
But who is Gregory? He never knew.
Only the scent from the age-worn letters
in his hands.
Full of moths
And Lavender.

Do not talk of the honey I pickled in your light bulbs

They do not have the map to help us reach The Alps

Just talk of the hungry flower growing on my lungs

At least they have the address to the hut on my palms

That’s drawn by the little girl who feasted on the chalks

The butterflies long ago planted along in their pulse.


Quick,  


Incinerate the 1800s post-mortem portraits

In black light's faked midnight perfumes

For you are my forlorn apostrophe high on gas

That might ask questions while telling us your tales

Or reluctantly whisper ****** things about Laqus

Who is wasting us to the wistful hell flowers.

Leaning on the step-brother of an open window
The young marble vase gleamed with sadness:

The drops of the rain filled its heart
With sprinkles of its holy water.

“Do not help me
I was supposed to be filled
With blood.”

Really:

Blood,
   or Flood?
Is it Good?
        Goodbye,
                        then.

And to the thunderstorm outside
The hanging lamps sways

          And laugh:

A tragic suicide of cupped glass and weary light
In their own personal smoky sunset.

        And that is alright.
        At least for them.

What is expected then, from a bottled hope:
If what is taken has leaped in loyalty?

And what is expected from saviors and their teacups
If the one who took away demands harmony?

The three-legged chair hummed quietly
Of the joy it gets when it gets nowhere;

the old table insisted
For it to stay by the open door.

The open door wondered
And the windowed step-brother cursed;

About the vase and the light bulb
Also about the wrinkling crooked chair.

The reasoning behind their dedication:
The light to the lamp
The vase to the blood
And the seat to weary hearts.

Why, do you a—

Ah,
I forgot to get you
The soaked rope
That bonds us together.