Thursday, September 01, 2005


In my tower of guilt
Deepends the northernmost black forest
Covered with sand, unravelled by time
Bathes in sweat
Of formerly unknown guilt
Reveals smooth secrets
With parafine eyes
Retrieves those mornings
Of pink-fingered lust
Of avowed heathenism
The pleasure of hearths
Drunken from their souls
Embracing their death
Treating her to sweets
Smoothing themselves
In urban ponderings
In resentless infatuations
Motionless procrastinations
As morning hovers on
With mellowing smiles
Product of older sorrows
From far off removed lands
From younger hearts
Pointing in their direction
A fountain of love
Vitaly, imagination
Smelling that maze of momenta
Thwarting beneath glasses of vodka
Sweeping through my veins
Making me feel somehow else
Somebody else
As if telephones wouldn't falter
As if my words would matter
Prisoner in my tower of guilt
I long without belonging
I long for my very own skin
For my filth
For my self-centered obsession
In the eyes of the stranger
In the eyes of those mornings
Embracing myself
Caressing my childhood
Bales of hay
As his arms struck by
With some hesitation
Journeying through my pasts
Peacefully tearing apart
Forgetting my name
Forgetting myself
Wound up
In my roads
Yet unwilling to give up
Daydreaming by night
Clinging onto him
Logically excluded
It matters no more
When will you smile?
Are the rains over?
I ain't sad
Acheing, it's just that.


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