Archive

'Lost Exit'

Cross that bridge over running train -
Cross a line, before fall of rain.

Word is like a liquid bomb -
Law is dead,
Punk is not -
Remember seventh of the seven
roses wet.

Bombs, bones; bombs, stones -
few nutes, some tones -
Quick twist; twisted whistle -
First thought...
Second - thousands left -
and theft.

(...)

Tombs, bones; stones, bombs -
moody blues, blood on shoes...

..................................................

I feel the burning hedges twenty four hours a day. Sleeping. Walking. Fuel rises fire up. Hidden post-mortem corpse dead, some thought. No. Say - no. Say - no - why... So, no - it has not finished itself yet. Thieves exchange bright tachions cracking them down, to show how far from 'Free Tibet' they are.
Clear water is getting black. Colors are fading. Mouners ready. Farewell daddy. Far from well lady. Who do you think you are? Answer is kind - not your faking business, lad.

Cheer up.