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suicide poetry

warum die Sachen sind, die keinen Tod haben
KurzschluĂź und sĂĽsses und wir sind zum Ende von ihm gekommen
geschaukelt in die Aufnahmevorrichtung vom tiefen
aller Tag zum Aufpassen der blauen Welle sich zu kräuseln und zu brechen
Melancholie, Blau war sie
war sie nicht fĂĽr diesen einzigartigen Geruch
das Emporheben, als der Wind brannte durch
Sturm
BlĂĽten der Babys

 



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