Fusty walls and shadows
Left mice in the lurch
They said „no!“ to Kafka
On that day when a man in pajamas walked
In front of his house
And secretly eated
Fresh autumn grapes.

Boy with a fishhook and pieces of bread
Was hunting frogs near the coast
While Kafka went from door to door
People were offering him a glass of maple juice
Or just watched him in silence.

Shadows were whispering Judge's vanity name
And frogs were moving in the mud
Kafka’s leather bag
Went carried by a river
In searching for peace.

he ran away from his unborn child,he thought in his mind he was too young to raise a young child,couse he also was a child.
All he wanted was to be free,young and wild.
As he took two steps back he felt relief,then he believed he could leave,so he left with his believe.

Runing away was like runing to jail he knew not.
Planing to go in drunkiness and in revery that two he knew not.

The mind kept spreading more lies to the morning  bread he eated,he was just too weak so his heart was defeated.The unborn child forgotten.The weeping girl weeped and whipe hear tears,but his memory remaind,a picture of him that can never be ereased,that each and every thought of the child evoked the unbearable feelings,the bast of fury flames touring her mind,shouts encrepted in the her heart,on the bed twisting n turning,wakin and sleeping but still she found no rest,internaly bleeding,emotional abused by his pictures

then she thought
thought that abortion might be the solution to the situation that she is in.

the legions of your
       laughter march
across the bread of dawn

eated of eyes the
        savory crumbs
ofthy disheveled breaths

trampling of thous sinuous
          colours broaching clasp of
sudden cannons of silence booming

the fair article of your poppies
(          bashful flocks of cords
.... sifting mercury of doves feathers

exploding against the dark
             i bastioned in thy infinite
plait, onyx detonating softly of
             thy pale scalp

glory my excellent lavender
              no sweeter scent
has sweated in the air as thou's ephemeral

dainty river cleaving the clean night
              in exact twain of pallor
wet seconds blushing on the purple cheeks of nocturne

she is a fair lady
               but homely against thy
visage.
                 .
                     .  O night

listen dead
                     is a lot like sleeping

in the earth
                     where there is not

life and there
                       is wormness

there is eated
                       a faint uncolour

a body
             a quiet
                          a bigness

'cause livings
                        finiter

but dead's
                   unfiniter

it's a nice long forever where you don't rise but you do you come out the earth in a trillion spears of grass
you come out as a dandelion and your heads a delicately flared puff of cottonlike earthbreath tousled
and fractures in the breeze, lilts, doesn't cease and goes making more life
                                                                                                                                       and
                                                                                                                                                  dead
                                                                                                                                             wasn't ever