This is as far as the ritual
of anger and stupid cannibalism goes.
Too many sleepless hours
and nothing to say.
We rest our backs
in the properly closed blinds,
you and I anemic
and in every calm blinking
we try to sleep.
Badly handled therapies with no one
who would intercede for two hysteric ones,
my vacuum-packed cries
finally burst.
And I freeze every moment now
knowing in advance
that they're the last ones
the night nineteen ninety-nine
went all the way to April.
I don't feel like following the program,
nor continuing pretending
I just want to be a member of the audience,
relax, entertainment.
I wonder who wrote the script
he must be rather ill,
it was a great director's debut,
he will be awarded thousands of prizes.
And when I get into the taxi
my words are glass steam
and I give my life
when I write on the window:
“may the never be true”
Oh, shut up!
And relax now,
she's doing well,
she's feeling better, see?
Everything ended up well.
She says: look,
look at my hands, see?
They're not heavy at all, see?
They're floating, see?
Fucking will to follow the show
nor to continue lying
and in a trip slightly fast
there's an “end” in black
I wonder who wrote the script
he must be rather ill,
it was a great director's debut,
he will be awarded thousands of prizes.
And in the middle of the trip
I shut up at the top of my voice
that you don't want to get off
And I lose consciousness
when I hear how you say:
“may the never be true”
Oh, drop dead!