...empty bottles

after i have emptied so many bottles - alone and all by myself - i felt obliged to write about it. i didn't say to write sth meaningful or good...or even tolerable, but i write. i wrote so much bullshit and said even more and now when i type and caress the keyboard as if she's my lover i copy and paste shit. there isn't anything like the sight of an amputated spirit was said in a great american film once. there is - living with(out) one. breathing and wishing from your heart to just stop. not because you are the saddest person and because your life is the worst in all the universe. because, let's face it, there are people far worse. but drinking from so many bottles, swallowing the bacteria and saliva of all those lonely broken souls and adding this messed up universe to yourself is getting unbearable. i wish to lie on the floor with an ashtray, a pack of strong cigarettes and a bottle of cheap wine. not to be disturbed by anyone. except my own illusions. they are - sometimes - quite ok...unlike my awoken life.

empty whiskey bottles and rusty cans of beer

lined like domino pieces on the floor

waiting for the perfect moment to fall

a sneaky cockroach playing games between them

while one more cigarette is being rolled

it goes between her lips –

the filter is the color of her blood

a hand caresses her hips

she exhales with eyes wide shut

empty bottles forming a maze where dreams stop being

into a grey cloud of tobacco smoke where eyes stop seeing

a hand reaches for her loins

her mouth tastes of a single malt

drops of rain and endless pleasure

induced by two naked bodies

in a hail storm

somewhere in the gardens of Eden

or in a room inhabited by empty bottles

a sneaky cockroach is playing games

while she inhales

while she exhales

until she drowns

until she suffocates