Hear the steps?
Past the curfew - two feet, counting stairs,
of a drunk man, who's stiffness is eerie.
It's the sound of me climbing up to my place
where there's no one to be doing the hearing.

Hear the jingle?
It's the finger in search of a key,
of a man who's had not enough spirit.
Would my loneliness also abandon me,
if I managed to fall in love with it?

"For the righteous Lord loves justice. The virtuous will see his face."
Every time I unshut my eyelids, time and I enter a race,
I drag my body out of bed, go to the bathroom to wash my face,
brushing off, like it is dandruff, the feeling of being misplaced.

What do I see lifting my gaze? There stands reflected in the mirror
an emulsion of an unmitigated taker and a poor giver,
and if there aren't any Gods, I know he is a firm believer
that the beauty of the word is nowhere but in the ears of the hearer.

All I see in that reflection is a young man, completely lost
in the sound of old people outside playing a game of draughts,
and on his neck, a rosary from a sailor, all chipped and coarse,
pulling him down to the full basin, with a weighty lyrical cross.

His eyes are empty, on his pale forehead there is a suspicious gloss
like that of polished marble, the reflection is a cemetery of thoughts.
Every second I spent writing, I am now doubting its worth,
all amounted up to nothing, now a mass grave for thousands of words.

I understand that the misfortune of a tongue that is so ill-fitted
comes with the duty of not vocalising everything, keeping it lidded,
so with my memories on paper and with their purport still vivid,
i comprehend the gravity of all the verbal sins i have committed.

I wish i could open up a bottle
and bring myself right back into the times
when i saw you as God, and myself a prophet,
and crawled to your house on the broken glass
of the bottles I'd had, so often, before.

It's such a novelty -
not dragging my bleeding self across the floor,
not seeing, in that trail of red, the springing stems
of hemlock breaking ground, to prove my loyalty
to yet another God who has abandoned men.

/in the jacket of evening mist
i hear vagabonds eating rats.
I remember when being missed
felt like getting a dose of crack./

When choosing to live loved or be dismissed,
i now think that i should have picked the latter,

/there's no misfortune when it comes to fate/

for love is just another form of cancer
that you would only find when it's too late.

There is nothing to gain, nothing to lose. Nothing.

As the smell of oil and tar has soaked all realms,
God gave men free will, but they knew he was bluffing.
All men got was a heart as a battlefield for themselves.

All heart’s matters are individual, and therefore can be disputed,
and are private, and them staying that way is vital.

I am walking a marathon to the wall where I will be executed
on the black path of a repeating Radiohead vinyl.

In the naphthalene on your lungs, in your teapot filled with cold water,
in your cupboard behind the cups, in the endless line to your doctor,
in the smell of your favourite flowers and the dust of your favourite venue,
there is a lit candle bleeding wax on the poems I’ve never read you.

I wish i was here, still,
i wish i was here.
I wish that this thrilling film
had lasted for more years.
The minutes and hours spun,
your palm was in mine, warm,
It was always the second hand
i wish i had held on.

The quiet is now loud,
a life has been muffed, well,
i hear in this dead sound
a crippling church bell.
I see it, the golden domes,
white walls and the old fence,
with my lips as the closest for
the silence to speak itself.

Oh, like gaffed dice in street craps
are the seconds, how they fly,
and only a picture traps
her in a moment of time.
But the mirrors are covered now,
the chambers of heart - locked.
Isn't it strange how
life constantly gets mocked?

Yes, life constantly gets mocked,
with its loves and its hot teas.

I wish i was here, still,
i wish death has mocked me.