the stink of pyre
subsumes city mind darkly
to revolution

we stopped believing the agora of the mind
our souls empty rooms colliding
full of amnesia on incessant roads
walls of flesh we were on the edge of terror,
steel confused with clarity
souls plucked like nails inside ruins
suffocated tales & archives of illusion

the shadow is closer to the center only
in the diaries of the blind
no hole of god is dead, we ***** fresh prophets
with inviolable gaze
for the sublime and holy in our sweat
believing is seeing the most lethal duel

the one and only the fake divine
who thinks alone on a road with no views
he planted spotlights in their eyes
for everybody to see only the world in his arms
hate kept in empty milk bottles

life is this schweitzer, passers-by were saying,
it has taste but only  in foreign countries,
with their fists in pain caressing concrete asphalt turbines
as in quick sands no muscle was moving

carboard smiles unprotected against the evacuation of desire
wooden language didn't invent choice
no decomposition of the edges the totalitarian thought inside
the narcosis of time merciless

the clouds lost their sound we still don't look at each other
no hypothesis of sight no discharge for humiliation
wither souls made history grappling bending
twisting nonconsensual reality

no destiny for the allegory of truth  
there are no angles of sight
facts become beasts
holy cannot be anybody's name
repelling of the heart beat

This mind is a jam,
Is a honey, is a cough syrup.
A motley of chaos, in a container.

This old brain from my skin,
Soaked in pool of chlorine,
Or an intestine. This mother of me

Comes from the grandmother.
This is the girdle of Venus;
This simulacrum, this effigy.

The tyndall effect exhibited
Spread, spread, spreads
A margarine of coal, inedible;

It spat the meal it created!
But a mind is a cog of a machine.
Two is a watch; three is a clock;

Hundred is a Big Ben.
How can i forget this;
This is self-aggrandizement!

This seeming small, seeming
Incapable; belching cyclone,
Tending Peloponnesian war.

The might and shyness, the complex
Flung disguised for a dove, that
Pool of roses refracted in blood

This frantic trade of dagger
In forms of rhymes and letters -
This is it. This is mind!

madness is writing itself
in a spiral of thoughts
that vanish so quickly
before you could catch them,
before you could listen
to somebody else
but your own broken mind.
before every page
that you've written so far
is torn,
before you are, too,
crucified.
before every last ounce of hope
is forgotten and lost,
madness is writing itself
in a spiral of thoughts.

Unrest. Lotte is ill
I grab my backpack
my compass and some clothes
put on my boots, a jacket
and I'm out of doors

On my way to Lotte
Being alone with myself
As long as I'm on the road
she will live
she will not die

She's not going to die, it mustn't be
She's not going to die, she's not going to die
No, no, not now, not yet
It's not the time yet
She mustn't, she won't

My steps stomp
The earth shakes
Where I go, a bison rumbles
Where I rest, a mountain rests
When I'm there, she'll be alive

mind is created
like feces or ***** and
we live in it all

the world folds into
unconscious mind which sends dream
to ego center