there are wrong inspirations
nails rusty
hinges on doors that
scream
daily one idolizes
the wrong picture of a naked
deity
the body longs for
what is vibrating like
a tuning fork
looking for the
satisfying glory of
an ecstasy
there will be consequences for
all these
ruins and fall outs
but who cares? one edges like a snail
for another place to
stick it out and speak a language
of survival
daily i must watch it and
daily must i write like a barbarian
riding upon a black horse
and fighting the wind
with its own sword
two heads in my body
gnashing teeth to teeth
banging
same head to another same
head
until skulls crack until blood
spits out from hair
but who cares? i am into this
and this is a choice
for life...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem