The Holy Grail and the Butcher - With a Few Question Marks

I build up my nights,
and I drown in them
The vacant maze
of civilazions
slip,
between my fingers
The fire burns beneath my
teapot, and it burns elsewhere too
The cigerette sings
a lullaby to me,
with her coiling smoke-stream
Faintly hoping that it would affect
me, anymore
But my own songs
are written in charcoal sketches
on the blank backside
of the ticket of the bus
which leads to the station
of eternity…
I don’t give a shit to that
My skin and my cock
feel the same
And am too tired to sleep…
Written words…written words…
why the hell do you march
in a column
like scared soldiers,
waiting for some godforsaken
Napoleon's orders?
Can’t you guys be a bit
more chaotic than this ?
That would make me
more comfortable
with my verse
Eternity has got stuck
on the cob-webs
and a lizard might
try to swallow it up
clumsily, before long
But why do I even care?
I live this moment alright
and I feel it too
But will I feel the
next one?
Pray why the hell
should I care ‘bout that
either….
I’ve attained nirvana
at the rustling
bee-bones of my leaves…
And moksha is just a
few gas-stations away…
Closer than the stars
for sure