Sobbing with the Sheik in the chill gloom of the crypt, with
the scent of imported lemons and cappuccino wafting in from
outside, V. even lovelier - if possible - in her grief,
thought once more of the French triangle player, the
lizard-booted wanderer in her recurring dream. He was now,
according to the letter on the catafalque, in the clutches of
One-Eyed G. and his gang of cutthroats. Then a sordid crime…
suspicious machine has no feelings, it feels no fear and no
thirst, she doesn't even know the taste of chocolate bonbons !
it operates according to the pure logic without intuition. For
this reason I can trust her when it comes
Sobbing alone in the great, cherry wooded toilet, with the
rhythmic strumming of imported guitars wafting in from
outside, the wholly heartbroken V. thought once more of the
stylish French triangle
virtuoso, the lizard-booted impersonator who had taught her
how to feel. He was now, according to mute pilgrims, drinking
himself to death in the company of the Amadeus tribe.
the catatonia of my wet dreams
heart struck me dumb
danger and dolls !"
Sobbing in front of One-Eyed G., remembering its bloody
history, with the aroma of imported lemons wafting in from
outside, V. - she who had always been too innocent to be shy -
thought once more of the French triangle seller, the loving
lizard-booted sniper she had turned so thoughtlessly away. He
was now, according to her horoscope, dancing away Stadium
nights with the stylish Sheik.
speaking, every citizen below a certain level of reading is
suspected of some disturbing effects
Sobbing in the fortress where One-Eyed G. had witnessed her
apparition, with the far-off glamour of the imported bangles
wafting in from outside, V. the frightened girl thought once
more of the French triangle welder,
the sensitive genius who had known her in ways even she did
not suspect. He was now, according to the letter on the
catapult, a prisoner in the very castle he had once own.
in the orange cube sobbing alone with a glass of barley water
feel secure with my new volumes
walls are tagged with epithets and when the braces became
birds of prey I close my eyes thinking of the naughty Sheik
Sobbing alone in the gleaming, antiseptic closet, with the
shouts of the street imported from outside, V. thought once
more of the French swindler, the masterful mentor who had
transformed her from a mere girl into a real woman. He was
now, according to the letter on the catafalque, the captive of
mind-devouring aliens near Stadium.
was the last cantata of my starving race
I have rOmAnCe
the comprehensive software
that remains is the mad desire for flesh
like a sordid crime my loathing for speech
said that with rOmAnCe
2.0 I'm going to be stuffed with passion
like no billionaire could possibly dream
you care for bonbons ?
cAn'T I pUt My oWn LiFE iNto wORdS ?