New York is cold and far away now

the people have lost their beauty

and closed their homes.

 

A street musician sing, but no one is listening.

” The look of innocence is priceless but right now you look so lifeless”

The song of the rich.

 

New faces, same stories, no good intentions to be found. 

There are sonsofbitches everywhere

and an elder couple are feeding the birds,

birds who’ll leave for elsewhere anytime now.

Even the birds are sonsofbiches.

 

It’s cold everywhere, the air, the people, my inside. 

And even with the slightest sunlight, I’m lightly depressed.

 

No dancing, fucking, gin or toxic seem to help.

I am exhausted.

Tired.

Partly dead.

Color fades.

Everything is pale.

I’m home but not safe.

 

”Run now, run, you won’t get anywhere until you stop somewhere and even then & then” I whisper into the night ,

to a darkness that won’t answer back. 

The waves are back,

”She’s lost control”,

laughter,

and shaky bathroom love-stories. 

 

Love me too late

like Nick Drake. 

Joy division,

no submission.

Babe, treat me like Miss Sedgwick, Bob. 

Ruin me, por favor. 

 

 -----------------

F.E Weeren.