What the hell, one would say
and order another carafe of wine.
Wasn't it at 4 p.m. that
the artistic heart passed away?
The hollow sounds of bells,
those are the empty poems I know.



There is only one I hold dear,
a Requiem as yet
untouched.



For some time I've lived off
poison and hate, loathing and laughter,
and pain as
my only comfort.
Ah, but I still laugh
at these fools.
You with your round faces,
and yet: I am alive.