… oh… but don't worry my love
this blade-like fingers of mine won’t hurt you at all…
they won’t damage your soul
more that the secret wide open spells from the
guts and
the gutters of the
steamy ancestors
and the blasting skin deep ghosts
of your own loneliness

they won’t harm you
more than your disturbing voice will damage my nerves
up in the rooftops
and deep as your depraved silver teeth
shimmering words like
soon-to-be-wife
glass
or
wet-dirt-after-the-rain

one dagger for the day our paths met
another one for your little death
the third one for this morning’s sweat
the fourth one coming from your blurry head

my body will float down in the depths of the oceans for you
with thousand of blinded eyes over me
cold fur as ice in the bottom of her
throat
dogs of the surface wild,
howling for me in this shell tombstone
for the cursed sailor
and the loathsome writers and the dark dark darkness of your curly hair

whenever she kissed me
I felt a warm wave of heat covering me from
my eyelids
to my sex,
to the inside part of
my
chest

her mouth so close to mine,
her eyes so heavenly closed,
her heart pulsing
through her neck
like a flickering of blood under the skin,
gleaming
descending
over my face,
a sedative mist of
dioxins and jasmines
winding me in her
breath

one dagger for the day we met
another one for your little death
the third one for this morning’s sweat
the fourth one coming from your blurry head

the king was born in the land of honey
but the skeletons of the power will haunt his bones as they were filthy money
his echo resounding in the countless roads
the posts, the codes
of the garden of eden

the murky afternoon in the singer's voice
brings him words
and melodies
and reminiscences of northern lovers
that stopped by
once in a while
and were wiped out of the face of the earth
although his memories are gentle

it is late
there is plenty to worry about
like how the hell am I gonna leave you,
and how many songs will I have ready for tomorrow
and where to spend the summer
and the caves to hide
and stuff like that

one dagger for the day we met
another one for your little death
the third one for this morning’s sweat
the fourth one coming from your blurry head