o1.
I will never fake any of it
just to satisfy you
I will never fake anything
just to make you believe you’re god
to make you think I believe in you.
I will never fake any of it
so it’s just for you to sit
on your black bed with white satin sheets
waiting for me to decieve your recievers.
Even though I love you, your bed
the dead bodies all over the place and
even though I do appreciate being
your scapegoat crawling covered in
paper, ropes, blood and money
I can’t help myself calling you a whore.
You’re just going to be another
blood type on my bodice because uh...
...yeah that’s right, I don’t care.
Oh my dear beloved
you kept me tongue-tied
for a few months and maybe
a couple of hours with your
with your fucking sanctity blossom
which grew in my mouth and
in my torso.
In spite of my wellgrown doubt in you,
I will pray so that I will die
at the ocean where you’re lost
for lost you are and have always been.
o2.
I bet you can see that girl over there...
No I know you’re just faking it all,
she’s right in the middle of the street.
Look, it’s like denying the moon at
midnight.
...her skin is still pale
and it’s bruised by whiteheart cherries.
She’s just walked straight ahead the road,
she’s almost gone.
Yeah, that’s her, right over there...
That girl with an old fashioned
and dirty dress on,
though it used to be fancy and all.
Sometimes I follow her, step by step,
through all night...
...her skin is still pale
and it’s bruised by whiteheart cherries.
Because of the street lamps,
I can see her little naked feet,
trembling on the rain-soaked street.
I can see her head, nodding,
as if she had someone with her
agreeing,
that they should stay inside at night,
these nightly flights are just a fight.
...her skin is still pale
and it’s bruised by whiteheart cherries.
If I just got the chance to offer that girl,
my long black coat with collar on it.
...her skin is still pale
and it’s bruised by whiteheart cherries.
But instead I hide myself behind a tree,
and wrap my coat all around me,
and you, my friend,
will be a silent witness of the...
...little mistake I made a long time ago,
which I still have to pay for.
It hurts me so.
(Oh, just let her go)
...but her skin is still pale
and it’s bruised by whiteheart cherries.
o3.
...and the moon that once lit
her fearful nights whined
and faded away.
Followed by dead silence and
purple little itchy things,
and a wall with pale faces
+
injections of fucking pain.
’I am the object, your
damned victim of oblivion’,
she mourned
’why is this falsity put
upon my worned shoulders?’
This was
her petition for mercy before
she let the third female
be the guideline towards
the guillotine.
Then she licked her red painted
nails while thinking of him,
the stranger who
wore
blue and green.
And the most pure soul
she had ever seen,
’Embrace me dear ’cause I can no longer see the flowers in May, or the white rose of November’,
(Near me)
She stammered in the living room.
There isn’t always tomorrow, so fuck off you fucking facho-faggot,
and someone
else became her moonlight.
Abandoned by the sea...
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