when you do what you do
inside you it’s a who
reaching out black tree branches
thru your lungs and your eyes
in a white sterling darkness
neither dead nor alive
twisting morrow and bone
like a screw
when you do what you do
on her back spreading legs
raping death stilling breath
you become almost true
to the old silent ghost
open wings without feathers
nightingale in a worm
The mornings of old times
are dead,
the dream gets on the tram
along with the evening
and it's over.
A sadness on stilts
walks through the town...
I hear it arriving at the corner
grinning to me.
There is one thing I am sure of
My grandmother was the woman who influenced my childhood
In such a matter that I used to dream about dying next to her when I'll get old
But time has passed and I left the house in which
I used to wake up listening to her voice
One day she told me
Careful little person there is a strange world out there
She never said dangerous and never advised me to be afraid
Just to be careful because the monsters you'll meet are pretty and friendly
They'll drag you after them to some killing fields
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