Klischee

There’s a strain of cyanide in our veins,
It hasn’t killed us yet, but it will someday,
The future is bleak and hopeless, I fear,
It’s so hilarious, I’m making silly faces,
At the obscene demiurge, at our crazy maker,
But he doesn’t seem to notice,
He has to be blind or stupid, or both.

We’ve been living this pestilent dream,
We call life, eksistens, the waking sleep,
For quite some goddamn fucking time,
Makes me wonder when our luck will run out.

My body softly chills me, as I sit on the flesh of my ass,
The spring rain is pouring down all over my tired face, I’m
Thinking about the mesmerizing quality of your wonderful eyes,
About the shaking rhytm of your thighs, of your hips and belly,
About the osmotic soundwaves leaving your mouth and lips,
I cannot rid myself of the verbal clichés,
So I won't say a word, no description fits,
Except perhaps that,
It really is,
Quite something.

We are deeply involved with hiding the obscene and awful truth,
That life is a cruel and frigid bitch, and that
We’re not very successful in masquerading this plain fact.

No,
It is like an adamant stain dripping from our lower bowels,
The shit keeps leaking out, leaving nothing but filthy towels,
In the end, we will all be dead and in the soil, tainted by mud,
Scratching ourselves, talking these dirty vowels, no more.

But while we wait, let us drink
Some misery and a drop of joy,
Kiss me quickly, before the long,
Dawn comes again and blinds us,
my sour- and sweetness,
Do it promptly, act,
because of words alone,
we won't make it, not now,
in this springtime,
desolateness.