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Klaus Dec 2018
Nightfall, through the door,
Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive.

Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing.

My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom  my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population.

When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol.

Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean.

I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
And nine months later I was born :)
Klaus Dec 2018
/Lully, lullay, thou tine child/

O sisters too, how may we do, for preserve this day. This poor youngling for whom we sing.

/"Bye, Bye, lully, lullay"?/

Three wise men would  
Great Herod's crown, it would wane.

So mothers they weep for sons two and under, bodies seem gaudy amongst clothes, asunder.

Though the son of man  is left not slain.
Should he die,
                          It shan't be in vain.
Coventry Carol
Klaus Dec 2018
Now I know,
This is the first time we've
But, I wanna be you.
I wanna wear your skin as a
In your ambiance, I will
And when they speak my name, i'll say who?

I wanna wear your clothes as
I want to live your life.
I want your receding
I want your growing
I want to love your wife.

9-5, I'd work your
I'd love your bratty son.
In the suburbs, a faceless
I wouldn't  be an upturned
And when I'd sit in your car or your study, I wouldn't think of a noose nor a gun.
For my father.
Klaus Dec 2018
Confronted, I'm helpless.
Running, I'm breathless.

My body's just a skeleton with a coat of human skin. I freeze and my knees, they turn to gelatin.

And if I can't defend her,
I'd just have to befriend her.

Until .... No....


I  can become a man, that keeps his knees and his upper lip, stiff.
I wrote this when I was an embarrassing 15 and seven months year old, as apposed to an embarrassing 15 and eleven months year old.
Klaus Jan 2019
It's a wonderful day.
So I drink.
Skies are grey when the son is

I'm on the brink of tears.
'cause my pen's out of ink.
I need ritalin with a beer. 

You'll say  I've  wasted my years.

But who cares if my brain's purée?
This is my life and I don't need it anyway.

January first, I'm out with the boys.
Oh the Joys of avoirdupois.
Bowing to the sink.
The Popped collars on our polos, salmon pink.
We drink until we can't think.

She'll  take my kid away.
I can't live a single man life.
I still need to pay.
No man's lonely without a wife.
I'll visit next birthday.

An unskilled worker's pride,
Always fills the void inside.

Dole squad can catch me.
I won't have pay no fee.

New year, same me.
Happy 2019.
Love you.
Klaus Dec 2018
You walked into that surgery room. The time's turning your body to grume.

I see it in those eyes old man,
You don't wanna be
But death you can't

Old man, look and see your offspring . Look and see the old woman by your side.
Look at the happiness you
bring. The sadness if you died.

Still, you're  imprisoned in your human
flesh. Your grotesque wounds hidden under
fine mesh.

But, old man, don't you dissaffect.
Don't wear that face of gloom.
You walk like a conscious object.
But my dear old man, you'll walk out of that surgery room.

Klaus Dec 2018
My heart of papier mache, dissolved in tears.
                   From tired days
  and wearied years.

 Angelic writing,

I read her line.
An Enchanted diary.
I just felt our souls, intertwine.
Here's to a life,
                      without expiry.

I thought about
how lost I was. High,
                    on a cosmetic buzz.

I heard her voice all around.
Then, I heard it resound.  

But how was that? she's not alive,

She died of typhus,
                              spring  of 1945.

— The End —