it seems i am unable to give a single clear information
impossible to look in these conditions
impossible to hear
and at night i’m telling them stories
they come out of nothing or maybe of
two words put together by coincidence

talking about russia and snow houses
horses with nervous eyes
scars on the cheek of my neighboor’s wife
junkie ballerine with bruises on her legs and i’m
waiting for the silence to enter our rooms
thickening our walls and sheets and breaths
i let my voice fly on their scared faces
i choose some dirty words to
make them swallow with shame
i feel it slowly fading away
there are those moments when
souls aren’t drank by a stupid box-with-a-screen
there are those dark moments of whispers when
we have nothing better to do
it’s not important to stand up and
keep and watch and be careful
there are those moments slipped between me and them
like a hole suspended in the air outside time so i
imagine rolled tears and horny lovers
unborn sirens in the middle of a bloody rain
there’s something happening or
nothing happens
i just tell them stories
i also give my skin, my sweat, my body
all the best things i own and then
we disappear


blehh. i dunno, ask me if it really bother you.