1 May 2012
Cold and flaccid, with the old smell of loneliness. Solitude, at night, no stench of beauty, nor perfect sunrise.
Lost in your warmth, the world it seems, for a moment: true and good
And the Angels and choirs sing, glory to God if he really exists.
With burning aftershaves, alarm clock, tick tock A percentage of alcohol applied to face, never to tongue... The bottle is in this sense unique
I would drink of your liquor, another night. One more lustful slumber, my leg wrapped around you. My body beside you, the sex of sleep
Cold and tired and lonely, old man. Tomorrow is the night the star exploded. And old wise-men would surely know, which way to go?
Guided by celestial bodies, with no uncertainty. They pray to thee, oh virgin of virgins, and bring some gifts, to sooth your pain.
Your kind will not be seen again.
Some morning ode • Opuss № I