Life is a dog-eared poem
and the sea is filled with marrow,
clinging like another skin.
From where comes this music,
echoing through my body?
How does it get
here, through that membrane
of silence, weighing down and
lifting,
making melancholy into melody
making love into words
such as I am
such
as
you
are
the last chance to love everything.

The primrose and the primula
Are really very simula
But out in Wales
The slugs and snails
Make both of them look grimula

No promises no pain, if it was so easy i would be in Haven.
It’s not your fault I’m so easy to broke, I wish I wasn’t
But what can I do now? Just keep my head undercover
And hope to forgive myself for falling in love with you.
I close my eyes and imagine that I’m in different place
Different skin, different soul. But it’s not gonna happened
So what, I’m just me, silly, stupid and naïve me. Forgive me.

The empath is victim of her own submission
she will go hungry with your hunger
and she will feed in the ocean of your despair,
her ribs will be your ribs; your agony, hers.
She will burn with your matches and
your heat-seeking missiles in the loneliness
of your hut where you have hidden yourself
in the blindness of your heart. She will war
with your peace until you have laid down all
your weapons, until you have lain in her arms,
embraced like a prodigal child. Like the return
of a lover after the third world war.