When the old ghost of suicide
creeps slowly back into your mind,
then everything is bleak and blurred ... -
down here in
the short-sighted world.
Yet, this time I have to insist
on the sharpness of the things I missed ... -
this once so loyal friend
..., he's not that welcome anymore.
White, fragile porcelain-boy,
some minor things shall be left unsaid,
yes, you share the
strongest desire for beauty,
as like all the "enchanted" you are more than blessed with it.
The boy is a prison-cell ... that
like a child needs to be washed and fed ... -
These are just two of the things that I have a tendency to forget.
The heavy smell
of rotting flowers is chanting through the prison doors,
We kiss the dying world goodbye ... and leave it in good hands at the
morque.
Well, on the second day of excavation,
tell me, what did you expect to find?
Be careful when you scratch the
surface,
'cause we all have a dog to exercise.
We are not lovers, we are LIKERS ... -
We are merely hands and shake;
there
are just FOUR from the list of the numberless things
of which we're still afraid.
We are not familiar with the state of (y)our
decay,
Because this is not our line, it is not really our trade.
All we know is that our feet are cold
and that our sticky hands
are wet -
and that we're here to bring you tidings
straight from the CHOIR OF THE DEAD.
Look at the boy ... oh, he really
suffers,
he's caught in fear and its distress;
there's no point in looking at him for answers,
because he is a stranger here
himself.
The body is a prison-cell
that like a child needs to be washed and fed ... -
there are just two of the things that I
have a tendency to forget.
