What a lurid city – spell it with the kiss
Devil`s grey sky sagging down the belfry
Creamy words of nothing comes poetry
Harrow grinds in the profound wound
The empty chair is at the same place as always
Tells it`s own stories of the killed fidelity
Slumber with Lorca inside my breath
Keep all the brilliant dreams out of the mind
I drink my morning tea hope it envenomed enough