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On those nights where the sweet poisons Of loneliness running through the streets I love to spoil myself. One breathes duller and one has visions And black spiders come out of the street holes In the haze of red wine, snot and greed. The tired hookers are leaning against the doors Like rotten fruit, crushable and spoiled. Music sounds from the ideal worlds. The air is filled with syphilis boils, And in the four-poster beds the lust has died, The far too many ordered to the menu. In these nights a longing grabs me That comes like a fire to all the crap And wander through the tangles of my soul. But I'm not trying to catch myself 'Cause it sure is a crime Not to be as broken as everyone else. Dead people hang on some window crosses, Who won't die for a year or two. Life drains away down the gutter. A salvation armist reads the ten commandments. You are fed up and lie down to die. But there is not enough time even to die. A people in agony, and yet it lives Under the mask dead like those fish Which shine again just before they end. And in the last few moves it floats Once more over the swamp in all freshness And shows you radian
