Emotionally-Executed

America alienates me. From touchdown in Atlanta it is obvious I am, so to speak, no longer in Kansas. I am asked what I am doing here. Repeatedly, and not always in a nice way. I want to answer with the obvious, that I am queuing endlessly for the privilege of being cross examined by an unfriendly customs officer who wants to know all kind of private details my best friend doesn't even know, but I swallow it back and smile meekly, while trying to act like I am not nervous, frustrated and insulted. Procedures, waiting lines, probing questions, stamps and signatures, and then, finally, the liberating "Enjoy the United States". I never felt

06.10.2011 God. I don't know who or what you are. I don't even know whether you are. And sorry I don't capitalize you, my grandmother would probably think it another half heathen streak. But completely heathen would be taking it too far. Somethingism, you know. Anyway. If you are there, in whatever form it is, I can write you. A bit like a letter to Santa Claus, they always mysteriously arrive too. There'd even be the occasional reply. And if he can do it, why wouldn't you be able to? You can reply every once in a while, in whatever form you would like to. Do I expect too much from you? Are you thinking by yourself now about you have been

and on the first day, i laid myself to rest the world decided long ago how it was going to die, and there was absolutely nothing that i could do about it. on the second day, i ripped through the earth i had previously covered myself in, and took charge of the reconstruction . i didn't know what a challenge birthing this new world would be.  immensity was given great perspective. on the third day, with my hands covered in the blood of innocent people, i rang the bell of virtue, sounding a dawn of ferocity. sometimes people just have to die for progress to be made, but what is progress for progressions sake? on the fourth day, i lit a can

And so the battle begins The air trembles with the rumor of wars A shadow over the horizon This is the day that love dies Who would've known? Your greatest friend's become your very foe Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth Like wolves, we'll destroy each other They set the towns ablaze And built an empire in their own name No more banners, flags or standards They erased our lives And built towers in their place We all knew this was coming Brothers against brother Sister against mother The air trembles with the rumors of wars We'll come undone We'll all come undone Like wolves we'll destroy each other We've burned our bridges

So keep your hand clear of the trigger Before you do what you're about to do The burning of a bridge; Sealed with a kiss Is vengeance worth its weight in silver? Dear friend, What has gotten hold of you? Pulling your strings like a scorned lover We all thought you were one of us But I guess all you wanted was a crown of your head And the world in your hand A brutal suicide for an actor on a stage Do you have all you wanted? All you got was a noose of regret Do you have what you wanted? One life for a lost cause Dear friend, Yes I still have the nerve to call you that I never thought I'd see you play out like this Put a gun

November always was the cruellest month – I don't care what famous poets have to say about the subject. It always was November when hearts grew bloodless and love became another stale cliché for writers and movie stars but never for me. As if the endless rain dilutes all colour, diffuses it to a sky or sea by Turner but greyer still than those; as if the numbing wind makes everything that little bit more ugly – even the generous liquor burning my throat holds more promises of headache than of temporary pleasure. As if nature thinks the seasonal cycle of death and decay should apply to humanity too.

He used to think my beauty was enough but he changed his mind. Hurt set aside, I offered what little I have to give that is truly mine and my eyes down, fixed on the floor where my soul was writhing, I handed myself to him. He took, he feasted and the gnawed bones he fed to the dogs.

You were mine for a while and my words, you said, were those of an angel. You asked, though you claimed to be worthless, and I obeyed, knowing you were not, and we sat, staring at each other but seeing ourselves, both locked in fear of the past and fear of the future and disgust of the present and our own sins. And I looked at your mouth and thought about kissing you or I looked at your eyes and wished they would shine for me. But they never did and I never did and we lost each other even more than ourselves.

You never shared my bed but I wished for it, often, although I never told you. And what if I did? You wouldn't have complied, you'd have laughed in my face, or spit in it. I drank my wine until the drunks in the bar smiled like you or the words I managed to crawl on unforgiving paper sounded like you, in your uncompromising language, with your unsweetened honesty. If I don't bleed tonight, you are to blame, I mean, to thank, or maybe I don't know what I mean. But you'd appreciate that.