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when i found my lover with another lover
i took a picture and hung it on my wall
it reminds me of being humble
painfully clear
the life of a saint
unpredictability
all to the fact
that he is dead
i live on
against my will
great and selfish
sacrifice
my jazzy guilt
the life of a saint
unpredictability
all to the fact
that he is dead
i live on
against my will
great and selfish
sacrifice
my jazzy guilt
the trap hole
I slide my finger along the white table cloth. The rings from the whisky glass are getting darker. Spreading. Like the rings under my eyes. Spreading. I twist my wrist, a bad habit. ‘But who cares?’ I yell. My skinny voice absorbed by street noise blowing in from the open window.
‘Who cares? Life?’.
I hate when the melancholic self-hate takes over, leaving me shivering but untouched. I twist my wrist again, close the window.
‘I don’t care. It is my life’.
i used to call men
under a woman name
i don’t recall
sometimes we talked for hours
sometimes they yelled the phone dead
didn’t matter
what we said
soon forgotten
i never called the same man twice
a day at the hospital
the French scares me, rope in kitchen.
the German makes me smile, calls me a whore.
the Russian has friendly, positiv eyes, doped apperance, always ready for figth.
the Arabian lies, smiles and push us away until he lays completely still.
we are sorry but we had to.
the young girl, what is her problem ? hysteria ?
she reminds me of Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet.
there are lots of those here, Hamlet, Faust, Romeo, Magdalena.
name it.
there are looking for the drama to end.
but we all keep writing their tales.
she was so guillible
she went and threw herself right into the arms of people
who broke her
she would she danger
and instead of avoiding it
like a person with sense
she would walk behind its theth.
THERE ARE MANY ADVANTAGES TO A BROKEN MIND
