Thunderstorm
Posted: Wed Jun 24, 2009 1:37 am
The angel of darkness takes you by the hand and
leads you through gates of destiny
closing in the rear of time with a bang
The shadowy creatures of the night mutate more rapidly than
the pathetic defence of your trembling heart
can manage to react
The prince of this world releases thunderclouds
dancing with omnipotence in the horizon
until sacred shots from the manic machine gun of your mind
let some of the air out of them and
you kneel in disgust
exhausted like grass
under a copper beech
in a garden of a vicarage
Under a shawl of despair you stagger around
at the cemetery hunted by the shadows of the tower
sucking the mind closer to the mess of death
miserable fragments of soul
sitting in the Ferris-Wheel praising the maker
in the second before the illusion looses its radiance
and the heart bursts out into a howl of sorrow
as the wheel once again with a rusty shriek
moves towards the ground and the pigeon hole
and the flickering lights
And the moon shines on the mud under your feet
and the mud sighs sweetly and
transforms like in a dream to a fertile garden
where your woman with tenderness bend over your encouraged fruit
but just as she
in the blessed moment
gives you to eat
the fruit transforms to a disgusting frog
and you look into a well and see a red distorted face
with a bird in the jaw and a spider in the hair
And you are led like a sheep without blemish
by the dark angel to the plain under the stars
From his arms the blazing wheels of the psyche is slung
like vira in a centrifuge
while the laughter burns in the thousand eyes of reflection:
You no lord is fond of
every prayer he forgets
kneel in fear of thunder
sense the angel of judgement day
leads you through gates of destiny
closing in the rear of time with a bang
The shadowy creatures of the night mutate more rapidly than
the pathetic defence of your trembling heart
can manage to react
The prince of this world releases thunderclouds
dancing with omnipotence in the horizon
until sacred shots from the manic machine gun of your mind
let some of the air out of them and
you kneel in disgust
exhausted like grass
under a copper beech
in a garden of a vicarage
Under a shawl of despair you stagger around
at the cemetery hunted by the shadows of the tower
sucking the mind closer to the mess of death
miserable fragments of soul
sitting in the Ferris-Wheel praising the maker
in the second before the illusion looses its radiance
and the heart bursts out into a howl of sorrow
as the wheel once again with a rusty shriek
moves towards the ground and the pigeon hole
and the flickering lights
And the moon shines on the mud under your feet
and the mud sighs sweetly and
transforms like in a dream to a fertile garden
where your woman with tenderness bend over your encouraged fruit
but just as she
in the blessed moment
gives you to eat
the fruit transforms to a disgusting frog
and you look into a well and see a red distorted face
with a bird in the jaw and a spider in the hair
And you are led like a sheep without blemish
by the dark angel to the plain under the stars
From his arms the blazing wheels of the psyche is slung
like vira in a centrifuge
while the laughter burns in the thousand eyes of reflection:
You no lord is fond of
every prayer he forgets
kneel in fear of thunder
sense the angel of judgement day
)