It is guilt that drives uglyness,
foolishness, stupidity and
bombarding out all that´s missing
as a cockwired projecting machine.

Blinding me with that wide
razor sharp & heated lense
reflecting its poor message
all over my gut, bare chest,
beat belly, sweat cock & burning like
frenzy-mad fire over mine high
´n shining forehead.

Knocked out in a corner, still high as a loft
Lying there forgotten and far away
the mind of those intelectual leftovers
walking the world, as a visioned old man once called
Gods little dinner table.

The tea has colapsed me over my bed
like a hooked whale cadavre
still chained to a withered shell,
once a sunken ship
holding on to its life struggling catch,

fighting for a high release.