dark days don't die in his sinning soul...
fearless guy, wearing the tie he stole...
yes, his heart is cold, but his hands are golden...
yes, his days are sold, for all near pond can hold in...

you turn your life into a thriller, who do you want to avenge?
are you just a ******-killer? or do you really solely seek revenge?
Xiasheng Mafian?



with black suit and steps like Drums....
hHe's on his route, and here he comes...

from ashes of deadly rain...
gunpowder flashes behind hidden pain...
eyes burn behind his cynic smile...
tides may turn, but stays the bile...
my Xiasheng Mafian....



lost child filled with dread, only survivour of the affair...
karma might be dead, but she's still so unfair...

kid, drop your toy, the wolf is big and bad...
innocent boy, who just lost his dad...

single bullet made man mute, now he'll never see the sun....
you sure can shoot, but can YOU run?
Xiasheng Mafian?



you had your revenge now. his corpse is hid in faeces...
but do you still remember how? to pick up the pieces?
to escape The consequences, of your killing syndrome?
will you find your finest sences, and go back home?

remember what the man said, before his blood stopped to seethe?
well sometimes we ARE already dead, even before we seize to breathe...
remember that Xiasheng Mafian...



and here she comes! the crimson lady, made from sharpest blades....
eco of her voice turns vision shady, while hope silently fades....
she wants the killer of her brother, of the man who killed your wife!
now she wishes nothing other, than to take your ****** life!

but have no fear my frantic friend, as you only live to fight....
do you feel the smell of upcoming end? Closer Comes the Claret light!
for you my Xiasheng Mafian....



soon soon soon! gunfire behind your doors!
Close Comes the noon! one of the bullets is yours!
her men surrounded your mansion, and she comes in!
even MY Lungs stop their expansion! when your time runned thin....
she freed you from the voice, running through your head....
the sound of your wifes rejoice, once lost in all the red....

my poor Xiasheng Mafian....



burried withouth a stone, in his own graveyard of thick water....
where neither dead moan, for this despicable rotter....
this gentleman and great husband, who wanted to pour blood....
to take the killers life, for which he lays in mud....

were you the hero, do you rest in heaven? or were you the villain, who burns in hell?
your lucky number might be Seven! but only Four times rings the bell...
my Xiashen Mafian...



your infamous name fades into the void of vain...
your flame burned out, while god danced in rain...

and on the shore of pond holding your body...
absent of sore, dressed utterly gaudy...
with his croaking rife Raven sings in black...
"look! life for life! the cost of payback!
you used to laugh! but wheRe is now youR bReath?
do you see the dove? deaR don deah!"


do you.. my husband mafian?

To another day
passing like the parched foliage
dangling from the roofs in
the ***** Bronx

left of the ferry,
right is the skyline
doubled three times,
cloaked in solar panel
glass and shimmering
against the smoggy array of light
that
will
quit—
in due time.

Daddy, sweet
East River father,
where is the little
meatball you had grounded
up for eyes.
For a Roman nose
and Mafian stubble
when your Sicilian tongue
was clipped at age five.

For English-Only stamped on the roof
of your waste factory
of a mouth.

For the neo-tongue that
was bred liked
strong As
and
young ****;
And copious liquor upon
the grounds of your hiking
trips.

Mutation
       of
vile majesty.
Cannibalism of the **—

Buttons budding
for *******.

I saw your phantasm
figure, soiled in
dark tan, curve in
my lens.
Swallow the hazel
like a viscous sauce,
sweet, fresh.
A fuckable baby—
of five. You clipped
my tongue with now
cloying giggles and in the bunk bed,
red and ***,
like a locket, limbs

dangling out the sides, fleeing in
a fountainhead of
DO NOT.
Effaced by an amnesia.

The old man in my skull speaks,
— I was thirty two days ago.

Now the IVs DRIPDRIP,
Chorus with the TICKTICKTICK.
You are the hour,
I am the minute
Hand.
You are slow, I must
go-go-go in compulsive haste.
Run for sixty,
start anew,
encore, solo, imbrued
with the days that twine the middle, framed in
white.
Forget.

The doctor parses the old man like an
obsolete phrase with theatric hands,
-touch-touch-
push,  press.
Then comes the Shakespearean
soliloquy:
—He hasn’t the coverage.

The trigger as a glove of flesh
hits its target, quiets the machine,
puts me to sleep.

What is it that
I must do?
-become the platoon,
an infantry of sun-empired men.
Fight the shrapnel,
the blitzing of
scar tissue.
Become the fireman
with an axe wielded—
Scale the towers like cracks in a mountain.
Die from the smoke or
the spherical flames of the
planes that rode like the hooves
of a horse with bubonic pallor.
Fall like a worker
for stories down until
God, or some sadistic keeper
of this earth, slacks a noose
and reels me in like
a bluefin tuna, prized,

as you
salute. You ‘Nam
prevailer heralding
the lacy harlequins of corporeal
God’s pardon
on
you.

I am in
eternity from
the waist down,
object of the tight, frictiony
satisfaction you
almost indulged in.

To be a daughter, so sonly,
revoked of all features.
Stripped of the places
you liked to touch.