must . . . feel . . .

Sex is when I breathe my soul into your body

and feel it becoming mine

and skin

no longer is a border

Jet - Black

Idea´s seem so clear

from way up here

When the craft still kissed the ground

I phantomed away to our bodies spinnin round

exploring themselves . . .inch-by-inch

embraced, loving victims, speaking perfect french . . .

/

I can´t figure that beeing important up here.

And it´s not about the altitude.

Many people like to mention that looking down to earth makes them feel free as a bird.

But this here is about the journey itsself.

Though I count it only another one for me.

This starts with illusions, dreams, fading to what I want from life, wild fantasies rushing in a cold sweat as we leave though fired by the icy sun I met up here.

There´s touch.

And visions of every touch that could possibly make me feel more alive, though I feel full of power, energy . . . I always search for it, its never enough for me. . .

I like to explode . . .

And love.

Love may be the ultimate power.

Oh . . .

What a fuckin dreamer ! ! !

Ain´t it strange this enormous force is the only one we can´t get totally and completely by ourselves?

Heaven´s sake!

Absorve me. . .

And fly away again . . .

drift rage bump, heart races, head´s out of itsself, what a gun, lose control, heaven´s and hell´s rush through me, I feel by myself.

When I dream about this journey to end.

And a body next to mine.

thirteen square-meters

Outside, the bitter wind blows
snow-flakes, plays them, makes them dance.
She watches them throughout the window,
just analyzing, no romance.
Her mind is wearing suited grey,
the days have brought her on their own,
they measured, and sat on her doorway
and after that, never left home.

Her husband, sitting on the table,
head drawn in the morning news,
sips on his coffee, turns the pages,
doesn´t feel they´re on the loose.

And after 13 years of fighting, hating,
dreaming, keeping-on;
they just woke up this cold, grey morning,
and suddenly, their love was gone.

( as a hommage to a poem i read before)

Alicia´s on a straight line but I doubt she´s walking home

A quick tap-turn on melatonine
A glimpse at your own melancholie

A see-through of obscene variety

before you run into catastrophe

A hint of a better world out there

keep shinin´honey, you don´t wanna miss the flair

her body language made all the gentlemen stare

It´s hunting season, baby you´re on...

Giving and taking intensive care...

And everyone else just calls her names

so many "suits" spitting in her face

she never had anything else . . .

Selling and raping every bit of her own out there . . .

She cuts herself every day about a thousand times

Raises her child in a bubble, though she only cries

She washes her blood off from her face and puts on all that pretty make-up

she prays on, to make her whole again

A sniff on a few grams, a mark in her heart

religion in a powder-dose, hope lays on that white line

she must have cut herself so hard last time

she still feels it inside

her time is runnin out

and the last what she´s about

is leaving a hopeless seed in a vicious circle

that must be kept round

Black Tie Optional

"Black Tie Optional" is sitting in his golden chair
dishes, glasses, golden spoons
candles and some caviar
cigarette smoke, the room looks drawn
this scenery, the bitter poor c´d
spent all of their blood worked dime
still wouldn t pass the doorman for one time

A sharper look
another glass
a bitter frust
in all this classy ambiente
"Black Tie Optional" stears at the golden reflexes
he rages out of all himself
he rushes in his head
for love
for good
another escort, she s just a prostitute
in Hotel Room fourfourone
where his "fun" may never end
but all his dreams seem ugly bent

An hour like a magazine
a theatre like scenery
a morbid waste of simpathy
blood-driven by naivity
blinded by the drugs he took
getting himself a mercy-fuck
eternal luck, forever gone
the waste
the taste
the mirrors he can+t stand to see himself in anymore
reporting of how money turned himself the whore.