Tag Archives: bleeding

Post-non-apocalyptic, psychoanalyric therapy session…

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ATTENTION: The shown image and text are NOT an invitation to action! Please read responsibly, at your own risk!

It’s 2013, following the End of the World/Year, with hoards of zombie-like survivors hangovering wind-blown, empty streets, littered with the scattered remains of what was once The Great Late Year 2012…
Only the prepared ones seem to have escaped the horrible, judgement-like display of fire(work)s falling from the skies, by taking shelter under shadowy living room tables, looking for what has been once, their complete cutlery…

Nothing’s functioning properly anymore, only mobile phones seem to heroically stand against longer and longer episodes of silence…
Television sets stare back blank at disillusioned bloodthirsty ps3 players holding in their motion-control shaped hands what were once games, bearing grandpa’s horrible false-teeth’s bite marks, all because “they” refused to “f*****g play ub40″…

No kitchen’s gonna ever be what’s been before, safe harbour for biological fugitives, on their last, oven-through way to, roast with winter veg silence of the lambs…

Not even the little ones have escaped… Gummy bears, gingerbread tiny little ones embraced in a last attempt to escape grinding raspberry, apple, cranberry and bramble soaked teeth…

Forever stuck in a half-dry puddle of regurgitated red wine on the doorstep between the living and the bathroom a sandal, eternal memento for all those whose inner peace failed on the short distance between the porcelain white of their teeth, and that of the toilet seat’s…

Because only on the bent backs of others we do learn the intricate, sparkling design narrowly stretching between our bleeding foreheads and the bathroom wall’s tiles…

De Profundis…

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Ecclesiastes of A Job…

Of despair my heart is bleeding,
Something wrong must have happened today,
Pieces of breath, frozen singing
Memories searching their way.

No more, no shore departing,
No dreams to brag about,
Cowards and dogs shouting,
Swans never flying south.

Tender whatever with roses,
Bitter garment of thorns,
Open which nobody closes,
One good for a thousand of wrongs.
…………………………..
I told you that morning, mother,
I do not want to be born,
To be the next; another,
Boring duty to mourn.