Tuesday, November 10, 2009

The Drunkard Speaks of Love

The lights are fading out

The dead Gods are angry as well

and the parents are having dinner in the next room


But why shall I care?

Been chased throughout

The light, the darkness, the haze


The gaze


The murderers – they sing of love

The saints sing of sex

And other things that kick and bite – they bid me farewell


There’s a dead telephone

buried

way down below my dead soul

It hasn’t rung for the last ten billion years


But whatever


I love you


There’s a stalker who speaks German

And a dreamer who plays the violin so sad

The joker doesn’t talk – the king has cut his tongue off

Or maybe he has bitten it off

all by himself


But what difference does it make?


The dead Gods are angry

The angry Gods are dead


The palace – it’s built of the bones of old Jesuits

And the temple is made of discarded bottles of Coca Cola


I’d hidden my thunderbolts there

between the branches of

the chestnut tree where our fa├žades grow


But I can’t find the tree anymore


A fountain runs where it stood once


Ruins of time – like tuberculosis

And excrements of space – like rat-shit


But why the hell am I writing all these nonsense?


Well,

I don’t know


Frankly,


I don’t


1 comment:

Soumi said...

Hawthat khub hashi pay,hawthat khub ghum pay,abar majhey majhey khub dawya-o hawy.