***
despair syndromes
∞
myopia letters
~
silence of speech
¶
madness of meaning
¥
betrayal of consciousness

and everywhere cripples and soldiers 
***
Plastic flowers will cover the graves
The graves will grow on the lawn instead of flowers
Flowers will grow higher than graves

Everything around blooms and smells of death inspired by life
Loneliness is the lot of a newborn or a deceased
So the butterflies in my stomach announce the plan to intercept

(Editor's note: adult content below) 

 
Oh my gods he wants his asshole torn by big men
Oh yeah, baby, he wants to get talked about
Luckily he won't be picking up a gun
He'll earn his money with his ass, not his blood
He'll enjoy fucking, not dismembering
As silly as it sounds, he loves everybody
All people are beautiful, really
He especially loves those who are richer and more generous
Of course he likes to confront his complexes
Of course his stupid mother didn't approve (and then died)
The man who has been renting all his life is forced to pay
Paying for air in the form of strangulation during sex
Paying for everything else according to the receipt
Hungry children catch up with pigeons and take the birds' bread
I want everybody to learn how to fuck for bread
I want everybody to learn how to fuck for money
I want there to be no money 
I want to steal air without a monthly fee 
But in the meantime, after the rain, the cemetery grows
Hungry men take their fat dicks out of their pants
Death and sex is a perpetual motion machine
Money is a perpetual concentration camp

***
I want you but no one hears how the night ends with a shot in the iron of the head. Because of the nonsense, because of the lack of you -> because of the lack of yourself. How to fill yourself after the explosion of a hydroelectric power station? Water? By blood? With fur? Shit? Every day I remember how sweetly you hissed your eyes, brewed tea, sang like a perch in the net, only God knows a song.
Your penis was so beautiful that the morning ended before it started. The rain soaked the cemeteries and the ashes scattered.

I always wanted to feel your body: incomprehensible, inapplicable. The body of electricity. Body of flowers. Fire body. Your appearance always gave me the creeps: you were so beautiful that the mud on your boots did not frighten me - I was not afraid when you touched my pants with your shoes in a cafe. We ate the rain. We drank views. I want to get drunk. I want to quench my thirst. I want at least your lips to drool or cum. I want you to charge me with electricity.

Cemetery with a sea of flowers. One person less. One less sexy ass - and it's unfair. How to fill yourself after this explosion?

My head swells and explodes like a coconut from stress. I can't fill myself with sperm or thought or lust or erection. Little beetles crawl оf minutes on the wall of my room. The stomach of the house is trying to erase me into the powder of moments.

How to fill yourself after this explosion? Flower pots in which there is nothing else to plant. And small carcasses of birds on the windowsill.
Cast iron death plays the flute. There are as many explosions as there are stars. There is only one God in heaven - but this is not certain. I so want to fill myself with love that I am ready to descend into hell - but alas, there is no greater hell than now.