dine flotte, bløde læber,
der burde møde mine,
hele mine brugte læber,
men i stedet,
langsomt mimer,
desperat
eller måske er det bare mine tanker,
for hver gang jeg ser dit navn,
så synker mit hjerte,
helt ned til mine fødder,
knuser alle mine organer på vejen ned
hver gang jeg ser dit navn,
så tænker jeg på den aften,
den følelse,
de læber,
den ydmygelse,
som ikke kan forstås, men kun føles

langsomt,
trægt,
som du var i slowmotion,
fuldstændig som jeg er der,
lige nu,
kan jeg mærke hvordan det føles,
dine flotte øjne, der ikke længere kiggede på mig,
men på jorden,
for at undgå mig,
dine flotte læber, der snakkede med hende,
i stedet for at snakke med mig,
din trang til at gå,
gå langt væk fra mig,
langsomt,
lige forbi mig,
langsomt,

og som dine flotte læber,
langsomt mimer,
desperat,
bevæger mit hjerte sig ned,
langsomt,
bliver jeg mast,
indefra
langsomt dræber synet af dit navn,
mindet,
mig,

magdalene just wanked off st. peter,  and i’m like...
magdalene just wanked off st. peter.,
the pope was caressed by tabloid headlines...
and jesus did a miracle streak of ****-smear in leather,
gagged the dsm iv into s & m translation;
i used to play the guitar once... but i got choreographed
into a back-up dancer / mimer role -
and then i sold 1million singles in the first hour of the realese.*

self-love amiss is a potato patch of the revelatory,
self-love quotes from what the greeks missed
in threes: the furies stagnated into the eye of the graeae;
i can write about my ~**** life
in the same way you write to idealise your **** life,
9/5 on the black mustang... who ran out from the better’s
sardine packing of expected, tight...
he’s got life... not a reminder of a cloned bricklayer
for a bricklayer just to suggested a bowtie of an accent:
i will not make england my home just because i can speak it...
i’ll speak english so well i’ll make the english feel
like lower class... if not migrants;
and i did... some boy from cyprus thought i was posh
enough to practice conservatism at a private school teaching
that mathematics using a, b c, d, semi-colon... ah... grammar;
unless of course it was all rather unnecessary,
then i abide by the law of knock down ginger...
and walking beneath the a12’s batty man’s legs sign for gills.

Memory is a beautiful thing, is it not?
Nostalgia works in ways
You'll never understand
Innocence
Lost, true
But yet
When I fix eyes with my own in the mirror now
I know
That it used to house innocent intelligence
Days when my simplest of worries
Were counting from one to ten
And my demons could never banish me
To be a mongrel in a lion's den

Staring at the family portrait
I am reminded of days without organisation
The door is half open
Our smiles are half ready
Our clothes are unironed
Buttons unbuttoned
The mantlepiece is overflowing with mess
And even the painting on the wall is crooked
But behind it
Subtle lies
For it was never straight
And for years, misguided disbelief
Like a mimer ****** to sing

Those eyes stare back at me now
The sparkle in those eyes
Never let anyone dull that sparkle
Sparkle is hardly a bad thing at all

Isn't it funny how the world stays constant
Yet time changes us all?
Time slowly charges
To prepare us for the fall
Time comes disguised as wrinkles
Turns a leap into a crawl
And before long we are lonely
Hearts curled into a ball

Growing up you must have realised
That the world is strangely
Not what it seems
All the lies that you've been fed with
Now are bursting at the seams
And when gold is not all that glitters
Truth evades ears like a breeze

Living in paradise lost
Watching fires fight the frost
Feed your loved ones with the lies they want and watch them hurt the most

Joe Bye Then know’s Gore, not Al-Zeimer

       Yet his speech is not real but a mimer

                  He forgets his last name

                Then pretends it’s a game

  Because he knows it will rhyme with old timer