You’ll never be late or the last,
there will be a day, the leaving day
in the uncertainty of the certainty.
But first you’ll have to forgive time
to the timed loosers,
you’ll have to forget the getters
and forge a fear on your heart
for the brave, a fountain of wonderness.
Heat it, hot it, clock it, fuck it,
you infidel bastard of moonraces,
glory of the unrevealed and the orgasm.
Your impenetrable body suffers
and the dry shadows of yourself
waste time in the souls of democracy.
Get your own fix on the path,
fist your brain on the wine cellar
among the unveiled mountains.
Yours is the reason to be,
yours is the wood and the nail,
the fix of the unwanted souls
on the remaining watered brains.
Yours is the lie, the fortune,
the big crack on the wall,
and you simply hated the youngs
for the commonly used years
of unwasted mornings without
nothing to claim or express.
No others, no these, no me nor you,
last night I went out in the cold
with a nervous click bait on my cells,
out of outer runners
it’s late for any revelation
it’s late for being honest
late for calm evenings.
In dark waters, black blued,
I’m sure you know how it feels
to be none again.
There was a time I was exposed
to the mediocrity of being loved,
maybe you know how it feels
to be misunderstood on your flys.
Now I’m the sinner of my veins
the drainer of the blooding days.
You’ll better run away, again,
there was fights, all my troops
were lost, no front, no back,
only disarmed melodies of you.
I’ll gotta be a face of my ghosts
deep drowned in the blue.
