Apocalyptic delirium

Tawny night in the belly of the city .

Daggers  draw  crosses 

on the obituary skin .

 I'ts no longer time  

for lost souls that neither god

nor devile welcome ...

Too late for a paradise 

and hell is sold  out ...

night is a scarlet flower

for the hours of misery

and  santa, powder retailer.

Suras and sutras desacrated,

Kafka king of rats ...

Afterlife  candidates 

take the last metro  

somewhere ,night and fog,

birds without  memory 

mourning their forgotten wings ...

The heroin of a novel 

dies of boredom  

in a still life kingdom ...

A bling-bling-ring 

hanging from her toe .

You are on the eternal return list

or maybe deleted ...

I'ts how Winnie the pooh decided...

Tucked away in the warmth of my night

I read german philosophers 

and french existentialists .

 I also love the necrophile poets

who haunt the necropolis under the moon ...

I tell myself that it's only the apocalyptic delirium

of an intelligence disconnected from the dream...