antɪdʒ(ə)n

 Chapter I:
 The woods are lovely.

Hear the buzz in my head
Sheathe my hand in the dark
The woods are lovely this season
Burn the house, burn the bed
Leave no note, leave no mark
The woods are lovely this season

On the beat of your heart
On the march of your breath
The woods are lovely this season
Tear your sorrows apart
Let them seep through the earth
The woods are lovely this season

And I promise you this
Should you're gone with no trace
The woods are lovely this season
I will empty my dreams
On the light of your face
The woods are lovely this season

See the wind start to rise
Feel the moon on you skin
The woods are lovely this season
Just a word of advice
Know before you begin
The woods are bursting with treason

But the world burns so bright
And the stars seem to turn
The woods are lovely this season
Will you not spend the night?
Who would want to return
The woods are lovely this season

When the wounds start to grow
And the bones get to show
The woods seem lovely this season
When you moan your assent
And the seraphs descent
The woods turn lovely this season

Stay forever tonight
Set the armor alight
The woods will branch through your reason
For a kingdom of earth
Knows no winter in death
And the woods are lovely this season.
-

 Chapter II:
 The girl who looked like death.

I met her at my cruelest, my most tender, as a child
in a place of which I have almost no memory, but her.
I remember her name, despite the years, I never forgot it
even though I forgot about me so very consistently since then.
She looked like death, and I knew that even then.
On the fringes of playgrounds and primate hierarchies
when children are taught how to forever be dirt and spit like their god intented
she stood alone, even more lonely than myself.
And on my word, she looked like death.
Someone in charge invited her to join "us"
but she refused, just as I had.
And while I drew my refute from unpleasantness
I think she was too far gone to join anything
even if she wanted, even if she didn't look like an absence.
Even her name sounded like death -maybe that's why I never forgot
and I was, inevitably, entranced.
I watched her be and wondered about where she lived
What her parents were like, because back then, that mattered
How she spent her time and why she looked so sick
Why she seemed to be so sad and if our sadnesses resembled each other.
And she looked like death, pale and thin and fragile
A stick figure with a bobcut night on her head
Some essential freckles and eyes big as eclipses
Eyes that could break your soul in pieces if you stared for too long.
But she never did, perhaps because she knew
What happened to people who caught a glimpse of that black glimmer
What happened to lonely children who aged twice as fast
Maybe she knew, that's why she always seemed to be afraid
Invested in gestures instead of a voice
And in her paleness and darkness and silence
That girl looked like death.
I never really spoke with her
And it will humble me forever, to wonder
If she ever saw me, if she ever noticed
My gaze locked so deep in her abyss
My wandering eyes searching for her
Her instead of beauty
And my lonesome daydreams, spiraling around her
Her instead of laughter.
And I observed her retreat from our little world
And so much wished I could go to her
And make my little hands so big that I could cup her in
And tell her that I understood
Tell her that she could look me in the eyes
Me instead of the ground, my eyes instead of nothingness
And make her smile, just for a second
And make her be a lanky girl instead of death
Make her believe hands can be everything
When the path is paved in darkness.

But I never did.
I never told her that I liked her name
I never told her that her eyes made me cry
Still make me cry
I never told her that some kids never get to be children
And that it was alright, because I could be there
If only for a day, if only for a moment
For just a single smile
And that to look like death can be so beautiful
When living feels cheap.
She never knew my name, or that I was there
Willing to be consumed
She never knew who I was or who I could be
And so, she never could have told me
So that I'd know myself.

I try so hard not to wonder if she still exists
If her name is spoken by the lips of the living
I try so hard not to imagine her alive and well
Assimilated by the passing days, a loving husband
A house, a family, a flock of ordinary friends
I try so hard not to think about her eyes now
And how they may look normal, happy, shallow
I try not to think of her stick legs sunk in a beach
her freckles spreading beneath the sun's embrace
as her children run around her;
I met her at my cruelest, after all.

I'd like to think that if I ever met her
I would know
And that her black hole eyes could still destroy me.
And I would say my name, for far too long reserved
And cup my hands around her pallid face
tell her she looks like death
and that I understand
only to see that smile that never was.
-

 Chapter III:
 A hill made of corpses.
Each day I climb a hill made of corpses.
I sleep in the folds of their names
I dream in the ridges of their stories
Cover myself with the selves they have shed
Burrow like a black thought in every chrysalis
Until the morning claims my rest
And it is time to resume my dubious ascent.

Each day I climb and each night I am consumed
By the echoes of steps that precede me.
Each day I climb, counting the distance
To the top of a hill built from the saddest of wastes.

Perhaps it's fear that drives me upwards
Perhaps it's fear that weighs me down
But it's been years since a thing insurmountable
It's been years since I last welcomed
An avalanche of flesh that could have stopped me.

Each day I climb a hill made of corpses.
I give them names and they give way.
My grasp on their faces, my heels on their knees
My body pressed against their own
A momentary shelter from the absence of wind
My fingers shoved in the hilts of their smiles
Rest painlessly 'tween crenelations of teeth
Painlessly for me.

Perhaps it's fear that drives me upwards
Perhaps it's fear of the surface and depths
But I think it's been years since the ground has been broken
It's been years since the oceans seemed deep
Deep enough for the silence to fit.

Each day I climb a hill made of corpses.
The higher I get, the colder they stare
And the less they look like I remember.
Each night I curl behind their heads
Each night I hide beneath their skin
Try to caress them when they least expect it
Try to forget them when they need it the most.

Each day I climb and each night I am consumed
By the horrid belief I have been here before
Each day I climb, counting the distance
To the top of a hill that seems ever to rise.

Perhaps it's fear that drives me upwards
Perhaps it's fear that keeps me warm
And it's been moments since I last saw my face
On a thousand corpses, pale stacked layers of memory
It's been moments since I so deeply wished
The view from the top is not just a myriad of hills.

Perhaps it's fear that heaves me upwards
Or maybe the hill just grows higher
Step by fearful step.
-

 Chapter IV:
 The wrath of peaceful men.
Where others looked for happiness
I sought peace.
Where others claimed forgetfulness
I searched for calmness.
A wasteland life of terminal serenity
A counterweight to all things fleeting
An arid blueprint of completion
In grayscale watercolours.

And I tried to inflict my order
On those who faltered into my lap
I tried to spell my architecture
For those that seemed in need of shelter
Maybe for them, maybe for ever
Maybe for me, maybe for just as long
As the structures were meaningful
In their temporal fulfillment.

And I abandoned the moments
Even when I missed them the most
And I forsook the horizons
Even when I yearned for departure.
As a thing impermanent
I dubbed my dreams finite
As a wrong imperceptible
I named my rights lacking.

No more, no longer.

I will fit my demands
In the span of each heartbeat
And I won't blame the blood
Should the arteries burst.
Let it flow, if it must
Let it hurt, if it should;
Burn the world if you're freezing
Every moment, or lifetime, or night
Every time, any time.

But no longer a line will be drawn
Not on sand, not on stone.
No longer shall my will be quartered
Not for bliss, not for skin
Not for the whole wide world.
If I taste like ashes, so be it
If I herald a blaze, it will come
You can run, you can claim me
Enjoy me
You can grovel, or whimper, or stand
But no longer a thought will be given
On your order, your structure
Your calm.

I am not to be had in accordance
I am not to be with as long as
Not finite, not perpetual, not measured
Not a wrong to be mended
Nor a right to be wronged.

No more, no longer.

If you want something
Look elsewhere
In a life sworn to order and peace.
Should you want anything, it's all I can give
And should you be free
It will be nothing you can't take.
-

I was gentle.

When their first evening came
I did not flinch
I did not run
But offered all my mornings
Extinguished my small sun
And I was gentle.

And when their first night came
I was not frightened
And did not reach for fire
But laid down all my days
Put out my own dim moon
And I was gentle.

And when true darkness fell
I was not angry
Nor did I feel the light was owed
I joined the dark with my own
Weighed with my young dead stars
And I was gentle.

And when the morning came
I was elated to be richer
An altar worthier of sunsets
But in the light they ran
And they hid and they cowered
And still, I was gentle.

I built myself into a thing unlit
No sun, no moon, no stars, no fire
All gone but scent and touch and words
And still it was too bright
And still it was too warm
Though I was gentle.

So now when the days begin to fall
I rudely shine my brightest
Unkindly burn my hottest
And make the shadows deeper for them all
I doubt they'll know this is my one way left
Of being gentle.

And should the winter bring them back
Should they retrace their course upon the snow
I really, really, gently hope
They do not face me now at all
And know to stand behind me
Where they might think me gentle, still.

Than serve in Heaven.

The savage truth is that the goodness that we preach
Revolves around the notion of an absent evil
Involves the blind spot of a will that perceives
Itself as something self-excluding
Dissolves in words that are too many or too few
To constitute a structure impervious to thirst.

The mindless youth is burdened with the blame
Regarding chance assaults on chance itself
Concerning its own with perpetuating
The temporary
Converting the reality of flesh to a core belief
Of egotistic selflessness, immune to evolution.

Draw blood then soothe; the seeds of peace
Take root in conflict, loss and absence
Kill enough of yourself so the rest may grow
Lose enough of your god so the ape may find shelter
Never forget not to remember
And the path will turn into a way.

The savage truth is that the apotheosis we seek
Is still undeserved by our incoherent, limping psyche
And runs its humble course through avenues of tissue
Residing in our primate language, in our wet, raw tongue
And into sinew and muscle and tendon and nerve
This passing temple is itself the only idol it can hold.

For your skin is the conduit of will
For your words are the last true commandments
For the absence of evil is to acknowledge the flesh
The half-circle to reason: the means to a beginning
Of a kingdom that's come and will ever become;
So swallow the tail of your serpentine thoughts
For only a beast that is fed is truly your own.

MMXV

I will draw myself in the colours of sunset,
I will let you sail to the shores of my light.
On my skin the smell of all your evenings;
On my lips, the taste of night.

I will paint my face in the shades of your starlight,
I will free my breath from the lungs of today.
On my clock the past days whimper
While I tick the dawn away.

I will grow my wings to the ends of the nightsky,
I will rest my head on the fields of the sun;
In my words the peril of safety,
In my will, thy kingdom come.

I will burn myself to the core of my essense,
I will cleanse my dreams of the sick yesterday.
While I die, the crowds just scatter:
When I live, they will give way.

Scar tissue names.

I rest my head against the window
Close my eyes
And think of the fires
Think of the hands on the floor
The sound of dripping
The fear of calendars
And the white hills of heaven.

I think of your softness
And the grinder behind your smile
I think of your need
Your little hand seeking my palm
The red marks it leaves on my skin
And the white hills of heaven.

I think of armored cement
And the brick fingers of our city
I think of fleas and ticks
And clocks and the sun on your pillow
I think of a kiss without a name
And the white hills of heaven.

I think of your wrists
I think of more alcohol
I think of the happy days
How easily they fell
I think red, red thoughts
And of the white hills of heaven.

I race my thoughts through the days
Breaking myself
As I collide with ghosts
But there's no choice, not anymore
I hope this road reaches home
And the white hills of heaven.

I try to end once and for all
Wherever it may be inflicted on you
But it heals too fast
And there's always more, more for you
Another day when the sun shines behind me
And on the white hills of heaven.

I rest my head against the window
Try to remember every whisper
But all I can mutter are her words
"In the end, it's gonna feel
like it never happened."
And a smile to burn all smiles
A smile to burn the whole wide world
And the white hills of heaven.

Animalady

I like to think of the better things
As little ivory towers
Both homes and monuments
Raised on our actions
Decorated with our kindness
Built on our resolve
Reaching up
For a better view
A better understanding of our origin.

I like to think of the happy things
As little, peaceful animals
Both duty and gift
Bred by our needs
Fed by our ambition
Evolved from our communion
Groomed by our promises
For a better end
A better closure to our quest.

I like to think of everything
As a bronze pocket watch
Wired to our thirst for fire
Ticking and measuring our bliss
Logging and counting our order
Until the human gives way
Until the purpose takes hold
For nothing better
Nothing better than a single moment.

This is what rages
At the end of all questions
This is what roars
The answer to our presence
This is the why, this is the how
This is the when and the because
The understanding to our origin
The closure to our quest
Nothing beyond this point of fission
Where ivory towers melt in our flesh
Where homes and monuments go blazing
When duty burns and gifts are ravaged
For the animals to feast on their peace:
This is all better things
This is all happy things
Boiling the oceans of actions
Leveling mountains of will
The time to finally cherish
The flammable wonders we built
Again and again and again
To watch the smoke choke
The green fields of heaven
Our bodies sweating, shining with cinders
Our head resting in red hot debris
Our smiles cutting further than our face
Our hands barely remembering
How to hold
The cigarette still.

Tomorrow morning
We'll build the world anew
Tomorrow night
We'll know what to do.

Hauptstadt

I walked tonight
Beneath the stars and ancient ruins
Among elated crowds
Laughing old men
Staring young women
Travelers and tourists
And locals and people like me
In-between-men.

And my city let me know
Or perhaps I let her say
That, finally, she knew me.

And I drew her breath
When the breeze was off course
The remnant of a thousand gifts
I took so much for granted
For too long.

I bled in foreign places
Some strange, some small
Revisiting small dents
In the low doors of memory.

And this place
Was always a point in my head
For departures or retreats
Never a home, mostly a castle
Where the spoils would be brought
To be feasted upon.

But I walked on her skin
And for a second, she crept beneath my own
Spreading the warmth of a million wars
A city that can suffer anything
And still remain eternal
A city feared by those outside
Who know simplicity as order
A city where the girls wear no masks
A right you earn under a teargas sun
And as I sank in her skin
Like the smallest of lovers
Like a mite on the left hand of god
I drank, again and again
I drank and I slid
Slid from her lips down to her bosom
No longer a man of in-between
No longer a lie scrawled on the mirror
I slid into what I could do
And with our common lips, I smiled.

Centurion

Deep beneath the petty scars
Sleep the legions.

Their slumber is finally deep
Their dreamless rest forever earned.

Only one pair of footsteps marches
Only one voice commands.

Behind the back, the shield hangs scorned
Beside the words, the blade rests sheathed.

We killed too many monsters
We scorched too much of what we owned.

The fortress is complete, impregnable
No longer necessary in its might.

We grew too much for any vandal;
Only our torches need be heeded now.

We took too many with us as we fell
As we fell to our own immunity.

And now they dwindled and grew small
What was their war became mere anger.

We killed too many monsters;
Now they must endure watching us live.

Their fear is now their own
Their homes are now their burden.

We let them be, let them remember
How we sent our legions to sleep.

We let them flee, let them be free
Let them go perish as they wish.

From deep beneath the petty scars
Our conquered peace has spent them.

Miss Feuerzeug

As the last unused bedheets are spread on the bed
The image lingers for a minute
Like a miracle explained
A deja-vu with photographic evidence.
Like your body, undressed
We strip our days to knowledge.
With all glory unsung
The present flows through our veins
Never again magical
Never again surprising
But on the contrary, expected
Demanded
Deserved.
With a disdain for words as absolute
As only memories allow
I let my fingers loose upon your skin
As surefooted and swift
As only habit can forge.
The endwords of our ritual
We've said aloud a hundred times
We've heard them spoken past a thousand
And we mourned for the loss of the singular
The unique, the high, the final missing piece.
The one in the billion, complementary and needed
Has slipped between our fingers times untold.

As the last unused bedsheets are spread on the bed
The image lingers for a minute
Like a trodden path behind my back.

Death becomes it well
For you cut deep in your scorn for fairytales.
As the last unused bedsheets are spread on the bed
I laugh at the child the years have made me become
Yearning for things unsolvable rather than bright
But death becomes me well
As do all ends.

So I let my cigarette end on my pillow
Let the fire feast on my dreams.
I have done, I have been
I have named and have been named:
Our words and our fingers
Have echoed in thoughts and slithered on faces
Of an army of ghosts and meat.
Buried deep in our silence
We keep the log of every round
With losses and gains
Stacked in the same column.
And as the bed shakes down its cinders
As the sheets turn to smoke
I let my self lay on the blaze
Invincible in my smile.

I lay there, midst the fire
Warm in my past
And safe in your present.

Lydia.

When Lydia was a little girl, she wanted -like all little girls do- a pony. And, of course, she didn't get one. No little girl who wants a pony ever gets one, cause you're either too poor a family to afford one, or too rich so you probably already own more than just one. Of anything. So, no, Lydia does not get herself a pony in this story. She's not a member of some rich family. Her parents are lower to middle class workers and they do work hard to keep things from falling apart. They're workhorsepeople. So that probably makes Lydia a ponygirl.

But you know, time goes by and Lydia grows up to be a woman. She doesn't flourish, and she doesn't bloom and all that bible-belt fucked-up terminology. She just grows up. Nothing dramatic, too. First sex in highschool, first abortion at 21, first shoot at 24, gets clean when she turns 27, gets a job as a lap dancer (part time) but quits after just 3 months, pregnant again, second abortion 29, that's that.

So you got yourself the average mid-state 30 year old, complete with "There ain't no mileage, only experience" trampstamped and probably with the deluxe set of STDs as well.

And that girl, she wakes up one morning and she thinks, how after all moments of passing glory, missionary, doggie, all that jazz, how after each, well, exultation, she became nothing again. How this happens to everyone, that's what she's thinking. That no matter how desired, worshiped, irreplaceable, unique and complementary you may be for someone when you're doing each other, after the body gives up, after all you're left with is your brain, then you're nothing.

So, with that in mind, she takes a dump and she lights a fag, and decides that she should be someone other than her body. Which was a pretty good decision, cause between guys, there ain't no experience, there's mileage. Straight up use and misuse. Like a car. That's why where people are more conservative girls "flourish" and "blossom" and "bloom" into women. Cause no one wants to say "worn down to".

Anyway, she killed herself like two years later. Found out she'd gotten the big virus somewhere. That wasn't what made her flip, it's cause she tried to call everyone she had sex with to tell them to get tested. She got to a payphone and she was almost halfway down the list, then she ran out of credit. And she couldn't make money cause she couldn't bring herself to screw another guy now. So, she writes down the rest of the names and adds a message too. Then she puts the note in her pocket and jumps in front of a truck.

I kinda think she stopped being that much of a nothing then.

Control.

And if my fingers trembleIt is not fear, it is not worry.
It is disorder's call
For a lash of purpose;
It is the hounds of collapse
Howling for my leash.

And if my gaze heaves
It's not despair, nor is it doubt.
It is the thousand paths
My war can tread on;
It is the aimless future
Waiting for my cause.

I will engrave my will
On the skin of rebel thoughts;
I will build up my cause
With the ashes of failure.

And if my lips don't move
It is not loss for words, nor absence.
It is the minefield of my silence
Where petty woes lose limbs;
It is the ground of calculation
For the optimal march.

And though I dress myself for war
It is not war I am preparing.
For should the world obey me not
There's always gas and matches;
And though my fingers may tremble
Pay them heed:
They will close the eyes
Of the odds against our favour.

Fingercuffs

There's a black ring 'round the edge of my island
A black ribbon of iron, like Leviathan's crown
There's a black ring 'round the tip of my tongue
A black ring 'round my ankle
A black ring that borders the sun
A black ring that sleeps in my pillow.

And I reek of smoke and iron
As my days do not flow
As my days must be forged.

There's a black ring 'round my finger
A black band of forget-me-not
And the work of my hands
Is ever bound to its weight.

It sits there ungrinding and loose
Invisible in its unlight
But it chokes my dreams to reminders
Of alarms, clocks and waking.

Like a hard iron pet-worm or snake
It whispers midst my Eden
Words that rival your own
"I will always be with you"
And the words taste like iron
The words taste like blood
And I so hope your soft touch
Is sharp enough to sever my finger.

Thirst

Silence the voices
That whisper of the night
Silence the noises
That slide between my eyes
Shades that yearn for the sight of you
Skin under skin on exhalation;
Burn down the fear across the limbs
Tear down the clockwork and all words
And on the killing fields of lashing tongues
Strained back to swallow terms of moisture
Hold me suspended, strained and whole
In the dark pulsing depths between the lids
As the blood drums all your callings
In the deep, in the deep
Where the breathing collapses in glory
Where bodies heave from the weight of wings
And thus in rapture let the maps grow forever
As the valleys of flesh allow time to draw change
In the cracks and the ridges of the days yet to come
Let us watch as the voices are silenced
Let us watch as the noises are smashed
For a summer eclipse on the rims of your eyes
Let us drink, let us drink
As the bright constellations on the tip of your lips
Learn their names under layers of skin
In the deep, in the deep
Let the world dance until the moon falls asunder
Let all ends come in their billionth rematch
No more sleep, no more sleep
Only the sound of old, white dreams laughing
As they sink, drunk and drowning
In the bottomless ocean of our bedsheets
Rinsed by the first light of day.

If you had me tomorrow.

Στίχοι με κλικ στην εικόνα.

All the songs after our names.

And though we suffer, we achieve, and though we ache, we rise -even brighter as life inflames us with falling stars and burning dreams: the charred remains of precious heavens once our own, turn into mud as we rinse them with our tears and in that mud we stab the flags, torn as they are, the flags that still call sleep to battle, still rage their voiceless challenge to the morning.

Purposeless and vacant of cause, we learn to wage our wars for the taste of blood alone, the warm reminder of transition. And though we've watched the world go down ablaze and though we saw our peace slip dead between our fingers, the fist they make is never empty, for though devoid of claims, it's ever full of want. Want for the great things that are not there, want for the windmills and the knighted selves, want for gods and for flesh, a drive to consume and be consumed, a thirst for second faces and a billion second bodies, for the holiness and the animal alike. And though we will forget, we never shall. And though we will regret, we never will.

And though we have seen kings turn beggars, we have seen beggars waste empires; when the thought must be taken apart by the breaking of bodies, when the wish must be lashed by the tendons of earth. For though we would forgive, we can't. To the land of no-mores and the one-last-song oceans, we pay tribute; with scorn. To the dead gods of forevers and the memories for the trip, we pay homage; with fire.

And though we suffer, we transcend, and though we ache, we conquer.

Waterdance.

Down
Where the pale river's tight
Yet the shore is left lost
Down
'Tween the banks of release
Where the waterfall drips
Down the tips of your limbs
Down
Down where the flow deepens
Where the drowning is sweet
Where to sink is to offer
Down, one last sip of the wetness
Down, let the moist know your pain
One last call to the bloodlands
One last call to the mammal in trance
Down to the bottom
Down to the last
To the end of the holding of breaths
Down under the surface of skin
Down where the scars lose their names
For one last reach for refuge
Under the dry knowledge of the wind.

Growing Arrows.

Not all of this can be bad.

There must be a switch, somewhere
A little push on the soft side
A little pressure on a seam
And it will flow
As imagined
Finally unrestrained
A thick river of whispers
That make the skin quake
A pilgrim mass of moans
That bite their wishes
By every sinking scream.

Not all of it can be bad.

The pain will be momentary
Before the flood takes reconsideration
Down, where no bottom is home
For anything but more hunger.

It can't be all bad.

Sandra.

Our next Queen
Will be dressed in rags.
A bearer of wishes unfulfilled
A dreamer of unoffered things petty
Her holiness, flesh
Her scepter, flesh
Her counsel, silence.

Our next Kingdom
Will starve.
They will know our hunger
As a state default
They will know our scorn
As royal attention
And a handful of praise
As the payment of service.

Our next King
Will be dead and alone.
His kiss will taste bitter and forced
And his smile will be lost
In the folds of disdain.
A meager lord of mistrust
By choice incapable of missing
The princely days
When he was willing to give
More than enough
When he was willing to spend
Everything.

'Tis for others to want for completion
Through alien skin and words that are wind
'Tis for others to cling to the hoping
That everything might be enough.
Our next war will be for nothing
And our efforts, for us.

Regret.

I want to lean on the prow
Of an anchored ship
Set to sail come morning
Set to sail for a land I don't know
Whose language I don't know
Who does not know my own.

With cigarette in hand
And some smoke in the night
There's always fire within
And a need for forgiveness
For all those things that no one
Ever considers to be wrong.

I want to leave everything
Start anew in a corner of earth
That only exists for beginnings
Me and a thousand nameless brothers
Bound to the same vague escape
Sworn to the same deliverance.

But I know that come dawn
My place in the prow will be empty
I'll be buying tobacco ashore
In the set price of docked salesmen
With the same coin that everyone uses;
Maybe I'll buy a map with the change.

In the whole wide world there's no place
No place I can die a different man
No place I will not wish for ships once again
There's not a single land to teach me
The crippling feeling of regret
For leaving everything behind.
Not a single mound of earth or flesh
To make me feel that, once, I was someone
Whose loss was irreparable enough
That no cigarette, ship or faraway land
Could ever hope to wash away.

Max

And while I was limping
Back to the place I call home
A ragged man with ragged clothes
And ragged hands and ragged eyes
Appeared
Out of one nowhere
Into another
I call mine.

He said his buddies called him Max
Though they spoke the tongue of mice
And leaned towards my face
Took a good look upon the lines
And said he'd help me.

He said, our souls live on the meteors
That drift through space over our heads
Over the roofs, the city towers and the clouds
Where the eternal blackness reeks of God
And rains black particles of poetry
To any fleshy antenna looking for it.

He said that in the end, we all grow rot
That we become too much to handle
And when we fall, we fall teeth first
And we injure the ground
Where we refuse to cling.

He said that the stars used to have names
Before the arteries got mapped
He said there was a river, far to the south
Full of fish that fed on birds
But its name was too sad to pronounce.

And then he said that he knew you
By name and by heart
Like the highways in his palms
He knew where you led
And where you would take me
One soul's a meteor, he said
But a pair makes a comet
And two falls make a kiss
And two birds are too much
For any fish to handle.

Stretch your antennas, he said
And the black rain will reach you
And you'll know
The names of the stars
And the language of mice.