After years spent stumbling
On your own tripwires
Sucking on a lost desire
Dig yourself a hole in the crawling
You can´t calculate your way
Out of the weight of oppressions
The gallows of make-believe
Count it as a strength and a present
Oh, to be cool without prizes
Dead letter office. On a red letter day. Dead letter fire. Secrets vaporate. A crackling soul. On a red letter day. You wrap it in papyrus, each layer a letter.
Dead letter office. On a red letter day. The dogs of tomorrow. Bark up the mansions of today. Dead litter, fire. Overwriting the cracks.
Tell me more of what you need to discard.
Throw eternal stretches of perfect solitude my way, tell me secrets that never needed to be told. Let go of my hand, I might be stronger in isolation.
Tell me more of what you need to discard.
Dispatch my home number to the in-house nurse, she should send me flowers, ripe with certainty, still fading like a flock of sick seagulls in the festering wake. Don´t send her late.
Tell me more of what you need to discard.
Burn my favourite books on heathen holidays, steal the keys I fashioned for enemies to lock up what they´ve sown. I´ll settle for windswept towers now, forgiving what I can´t forget.
Tell me more of what you need to discard.
Write a textbook on how not to find my fortress of delicious, almost extinct, sandcastles of despair. Pass my soul around at Halloween for kids to trade for candy.
Tell me more of what you need to discard.
Tell me endless tales. Or just tales without beginnings and all too familiar endings.
Tell me more of what you need to discard.
i shall no longer be the bedarkened. this suffocating feeling of being in the wrong bed at the very wrong time. your secret movements keep me awake. on the right days. your silent teeth, the way your hair conquers the mic. oh, the way memory transcends into vision, vision transcends into reality. reality whispering on the good side of the wrong side of the bed. muttering through the mud of meaning.
it never really amounts to words.
in the fleeting moments of disturbance inside the drowning trees. downcast. and ready to reel.
don´t throw your little maple leaves at the main building. don´t throw your cool.
leaned against exceptionals, your glow resemble theirs. a downcast rainmaker in a forest withering at the mercy of transparent trolls.
a wobbly retreat.
You don´t stay up too long. The night seems bereft of mysteries.
I don´t see it; they´re still around.
Close your eyes and drive imaginary cars frantically into walls.
There: beneath reality.
sgehlert 