/pj harvey – broken harp/
today we´re older than yesterday.
in the heat, childhood is melting
inside ice cream cones.
bed games are also something else,
no shelters from the world,
just exposed pieces of meat.
porcelain tableware full of wet, blinking words
instead of afternoon tea.
dazzling white gym shoes whizzing around the floor,
playful way of the fight for life.
from a to z.
we have broken the door with the door key
and now we´re looking for the right lock,
idiots with eyes out on stalks,
in the autumn
already faded away.
paralysis of your self.
in your mouth, creativity shatters into
verses about the cowardly silence
and autumn rains.
you wither away,
instil the arrowheads with emptiness of your voice.
stars fall on your head along with sky
and you just silently shuffle your feet,
changing glass into plastic
on occasion of cordial fall.
you no longer believe
in carpets made of tenderness.
i´m shaking off your hand
from my melancholic underbelly,
as ravens shake sadness off their wings.
it leaves a crater,
inky black and intractable,
as those feathers
glistening in the daylight.
lustful eyes banished
from ordinary days.
and your legs
memento of dreams.
nobody´s touching your skin,
so you´re peeling it off,
piece by piece,
and selling it to the wind.
face deformed by pressure
all that is
losing souls in afternoon rain,
dropping the last of their petals.
their very own dignity.
you and your greedy eyes.
desert covering your face.
silence is your everlasting speech.
of war that is
shreds of papers and unconsciousness,
what was before
and arrival of after:
whether my steps
are directed to you
blackness outside the window is becoming thin,
although it´s just got dark.
spring is approaching and
when i get up from your bed,
you silently drain outside of me.