Show Business

I'd rather die

than rest in peace...

.

.

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Love

- Can you stand?
The room is dark.
Hold my hand
and there’s no lack
of someone else.

[…]

- Do you still feel lonely?
- …

I feel your loneliness too,
conducted by the hand of my solitude…


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American Girl

to A. Lane

There’s nothing I can do better
than die in your arms.

Seas of bright juice murmuring
far away – outside your window.
The day breaks.
It’s a glorious dawn.
Two emeralds shine over me
and a tender song
hovers above us.

You light a match
and spread pride like the goddess
of the sacred fire
of ancient love.
Maybe I shall do a sacrifice
to Venus
in the altar of Jove.

There’s incense all over the place.
I can’t see, but I sense
that this one is my dying day.

Strange… I’m free from fear.
Shaking hands with Death,
in menstruation blood I bath
and I fill in forms of resurrection
(I’m not free from forms,
but that’s ok – I’ve plenty of time
since I only ought to die today).

I construct obelisks
in the Fields of Life
in honor of Noble tasks.
And, please, unscrew the locks
from the doors of your heart
and provide me some xXx!

Is this the wasted land?

If so, why do I see flowers
and tall trees, and green tea
(green tea as green as dollars),
and high hopes even taller?
If this is the wasted land,
where does this scent come from?
And how can my life go on?

Death calls me
and I gotta go,
but I supplicate for
one more second…

And then I ask you:
can I come…

to your arms, as pale as ice?
to your legs, once and twice?
in your breast?
in your face?
in your warm sweet mouth?
in
all over the place?

can I?

there’s nothing I can do better
than die in your arms.



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