Morning the dark wakes me, I grab my wrist,
if it's still pulsating in me, if I still have the luck
or I'm way gone and I have shined-up shoes
morning after morning the same wake-up into nothingness
There's no what, there's no how, there's no why, there's no where,
there's no with whom, there's no about what, everyone is alone in themselves
sickly Don Quixote saddles his Rocinante
and God is the blind driver sitting at the wheel
I power up the telephone - the answering machine of foreign feelings
bad news come like the police at dawn
I'm half awake and half still on a night break
I should be laughing but I have the smile of Mickey Mouse
mornings I should like to cancel
Good man on the radio plays Chick Corea
really it's merry, sort of like in a mausoleum
in the queue for mummy I have circles under my eyes
the pink dawn really doesn't sway me anymore
You're saying something about what we should be doing
indentations of us in the bed are slowly going cold
everything swathes in darkness, whose fault was that
that the lumberjack swung through the width between us?
Beds split into two sovereign states
decorations on the wallpaper are like border wires
it won't come in sleep, the sleep is sweetly faint,
that there was love in me, is just futile anger
wires I should like to cancel
The cursed hour, that minute, that short while,
when things are not black, but not quite white either
when it's not dark, but not yet quite visible
vigil is pain, without the sweet narcotism
It's pulsating furiously in me and dully pinching in the groin
to fall asleep and to not wake up, to not have to think of anything
propped up on my knees i listen to your tears
for a life it's too late and for death still too early
What used to be a long time ago yesterday, is as if it hadn't been at all
the coffee is drunk and there is none left to spare
things you don't want to happen, they still happen
and bread with butter always falls to the ground on the wrong side
butter I should like to cancel
You're speaking of hope and jumble up your words
like a spy satellite flying over the planet
to undress the pyjamas, that would be easy enough
twenty years I've been talking, and now I just don't want to
From the poster on the toilet the fattened pig
rises while the water is running around downwards
everything is said and carried away to the sewer
all that's left is to breathe myself through a few more moments
I grab my wrist, and outside it's already tomorrow
the clock strikes signals of Good morning
I'm half awake and half still on a night break
I should be laughing but I have the smile of a Mickey Mouse
love I should like to cancel
Morning the dark wakes me, I grab my wrist,
if it's still pulsating in me, if I still have the luck
or I'm way gone and I have shined-up shoes
morning after morning the same wake-up into nothingness