Love is:
Mr Fishes going all the way/down
to the lonely concerto.
Love is:
Mr Fishes slummbering the dream
of mad desire for the moon.
Love is:
Cold coffe on a warm chat room.
love is Mr Fishes naked
rolling the blunt
of my
wish.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Some strange poison
consumes my heart.
Im shining
my pretty face,
my lips all red,
my naked body
my hands.

Some stranger water
gets dark
inside my heart

It is not about saying good bye
It is about
the prolonged pain
that sleeps
betwen
a beauty
pair
of
legs.

This flower is crying mama...

the last chance that i take about flowers was nectar
and now:

just blooming


i want your precious faceless flower
just for fun
and may be we will get to the graveyard
of my purity

You all are shadows
and lies
so
keep me on
my
plane(t)

Here, now:
looking at the bright star of your deity bodyless.

You have grown colder
as the music use to say,
and i have grown deeper into a trance
that encompasses my void.

Let me see your fragile weakness soul
and play spells
incomprehensible magic mantra
becoming shadow
indulging wounds
praying the secret poem
to a homeless paria.

Let me take the easy way
to death.

One day we will become
into flowers
and our smells
will write
the cantata of mature fruit
and our song
will reveal the sadstone
that burns
within.