Spy from the void

we are in the database now. --stop

they know.
they k now. -- sto p

it's happening. --
paranoia is real. it's upon us. the clock is ---

wear your uniform, though no one no longer cares.

we are gonna need it, just for ourselves now, to be an army.

to be defeated.

.END OF TRANSIMSSION.


https://derzirkusbrennt.bandcamp.com/track/spy-from-the-void 

Meet you at the Ol'Ash's Saloon

The spy doesn't drink rainwater,
and flickers the eye, the Sun,
but does anybody really have one?
There was a pyramid, still there.
Once upon a time, once upon a moon.
She said she lived by the ruins, she was a liar,
but the ruins lived by our side, wherever we went,
as wherever she slept, she was a liar.
The rain has long gone too:
a witch foreshadows of curses,
her feet by the puddle,
today there won't be any bell to toll,
and I, I am sure I've wanted it all.


https://derzirkusbrennt.bandcamp.com/track/meet-you-at-the-ol-ashs-saloon 

unevens

harsh
harsh isn't it?

Molly got a fix today,
cause she had a broken trigger.
we're so fucked up and
the sun ain't setting,
just...
so it will be forever yesterday

tomorrow I will tune the violin
and tie my shoes.
and her humor was never dark,
sugar-free lemonade her caustic joke.
hence, I tasted her and she tasted like lemons, too.
eventually,
i spilled some juice in a coughing fit,
while at the black market,
then we made love,
right there where they sold the crumbs,
and all the smugglers stared

by ribbons wrapped

we'll be whispering out the names we gave each other, at last,
on those rough stairs. dressed like fae in disgrace,
finally an appropriate clothing for our condition -
and maybe will be given drapes of twilight to yearn
the mood of tragedy which compass our wills,
maybe we will tear them as we torn ourselves,
pales, the bodies left among the snow on the corners of the streets,
finding a sense of homecoming between the trash and the discordia.
- a subtle grim of melancholy grown in a lab, grafted in the sarcasm,
and flowers burned with the lighter some moments before dawn
is all our cruelties.
maybe the sun itself does that kind of things to himself.
to shine and warm the lands and stuff.
- sometimes we just say hello, shorts movements of the hand,
the faces staring,
faint eye contact, like in incognito,
give a look to the sky,
dear sky,
and give to each other a proper sound to be called by,
when everything just parts.

present for my nostalgia.

It cometh from when you packed all things,

all the little stupid souvenirs,

- and all the days they hardly dare to remind

dressed like in a movie of faded photographs and yellowish diary pages.

Such a noisy film printed to my eyes

in which i repeat my clichés.-

It cometh from when you contemplated the loss,

all the little stupid souvenirs,

and all the things to feel how time tastes like,

as tough sorrow was to intend as comfort,

tragical weather for our life to wander in.