there is an old story

                                                   L.

paint on me your wicked comics            
call me douchebag            
spit in my well            
torture me with needles and knives            
poison my marrow  
envenom my cat          
though, i still obey you            
like this foolish virgin            
in 'une saison en enfer'.            
i will go for you in jail            
i will be pariah            
silly insane            
convict of penal servitude            
i will desist from dissident labour            
because i feel like            
behind of your callousness            
conceals infinite tenderness            
and once            
on one bright or dim day            
whether we will be still on earth or not            
you will turn your eyes to my face            
and without any tinge of sarcasm you will utter  "i love you"  
       utenaka

The human face is
empty power,..

Antonin Artaud



this is an old story repeats how my love
my celestial tiny love fall on her face
for him there exist complicate relationships
with his art, every day life matter, enjoynment and comfort and social meetings
why this everything is nothing for me
just a firing sphere of titan luv-string
make a needle trembling in my soul
and only lips to lips and hands to hands what is really real
Would you cry bitterly i will nurse you untill
the day, when odd ghosts turn into rebel angels
and will see how finally you baby dance. Aie-e!
But contrar, to me there are only excuses:
upcomming renovation of domizil, eating, snorting drugs, withdraw from overdosis of nice benzo, order to work, appointments..
hundret causes why i am the NUMBER LAST
and when i cryed
there was no sun and no person
no one ahead of me no one before me
no one no one no one towards me
And i feel like my love slowly get wrapped in
the splinters of woodyou combine over my blindness
the wood splinters
of empire which calls NO-Love
O mortal pines, O excruciating torments!My darling-
magic Master, i shal confess that
you are just atrisan, less an artist, because artists are those who live by and die from love
like jean cocteau, camille claudel, piaf..
love and compassion abandoned, compassion and love fucked up..
and sphinxs in darkness remain keeping silence and look
like
one more star distinguish in this nighty sky