is not a house. Not a house but a home.
is running through my veins, dripping from the flesh of a not-yet-to-die misbelief. I ain’t seeing nothing more than fruits in a jar.
Came, junkie whore, whispering and carpenter.
When you re like a car in the water, with a broke down E, then you got no driving wheels (hey! Paula D. ?).
The corkscrew of what? is somehow defined somewhere. I say why on everything but when I spit.
One eyed Sugar Joe, followers of the scarred fag’, my knitter, fancy Mary, Captain Seahorse, my dear ‘burning low lands orientated’ Wolfman. All of them, softly caring the weight of the world on their oh! so tiny shoulders.
Traitor’s call maybe. But got no legitimacy in the life that’s gone, right?
Boy, so weak and naive…
I tend to wait for useless answers from unnamed persons.
I curse Mr D’s purety, unexpected strenght, not so wanted stand-up acts.