Descending again into the thick madness of a paralysed rot
You, with your glazed hair and rugged face,
Pull me out. Is it not late enough?
The moon has given up on me, the music has become stale
I have nowhere to be but I need to move a finger at least.
My friend tells me my beloved philosophers
Were nothing but cunts
I laughed and laughed until my mother made me coffee
And my father finally learnt that I am a being of my own.
I can see your arm stretched out
Too bad I cannot clasp it with my claws
Come back another afternoon if your tongue still bleeds with desire
And your eyes don't mourn a loss.