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Jozef Vizdak Jan 2017
On píseň lásce mrtvé zpívá
Tak smutnou až měsíc pláče
A slunce v noci neusíná

Ona jak z ledového kamene oči
Upřené na sklenku vína
On na štěstí víc si nevzpomíná

Bílýma nedosažitelnýma rukama svýma
Pohladí mu tváře zčernalé
Jeho slza už jí nedojímá

A když odchází zpočine v její náruči-
Sám ještě do noci světla nezhasíná
Kapka slzy, potok krve, koho vina ?
Translation:
He sings a song to dead love
so sad the moon cries
and sun can’t sleep at nights

With stone cold eyes
she gazes on glass of wine
he can’t seem to remember happiness

With white unobtainable hands
she strokes his blackened cheek
his tear doesn’t move her anymore

And when she leaves she rests in his arms-
alone into the night he doesn’t turn of the lights
a teardrop, river of blood, who’s fault?
#cz
Martin Narrod May 2014
The likes of you I can't describe,
Yet I love to eat between your thighs.
The melody you spake to me
Unfolds my greatest sovereignty.
I crave to quaff all of your spit,
And swallow every drop of it.
Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh,
Those bare and supple ****** *******,
Your eyes that follow my firm gaze,
While we kiss and lick and misbehave.
I need to feel each piece of skin,
Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again.
It's such a treat to eat you whole;
I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.
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Martin Narrod May 2014
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
*Johnny 3:16 is an unattainable film featuring Vincent Gallo. The trailer for the film is available here

— The End —