| I’m clicking your fingers for a gothic twilight
|
| That actually existed just in your head
|
| Your fingernails painted black
|
| Or bloodred
|
| I forget
|
| And your fake-leather volumes
|
| Jabbering on hell
|
| Manifest decadence was what you hoped to exhail
|
| Your eyes tried so hard to glitter
|
| A star-snuffing black
|
| So you opened your books
|
| And you opened your legs
|
| And so opened your heart
|
| And let in the badness
|
| You claimed
|
| As your friend
|
| With un-angels hovering
|
| Like flies round the orchard
|
| That had covered your soul
|
| Their empire increasing
|
| And your country
|
| Deserted by yourself
|
| The bells of St. Mary call us to remember
|
| That life is with end
|
| And the gestures can kill us Moreover destroy
|
| And there is one jugdement only
|
| Your letters came daily
|
| In French or in German
|
| But they meant to me nothing
|
| I caught the slow cords
|
| And dry ice fogging your mind
|
| I see all too clearly now
|
| Why you should be discarded
|
| And though I could pray for you
|
| I probably shan`t
|
| Having had my cup filled up With your lies
|
| And your makeup
|
| You were nothing
|
| Thinking you`re something
|
| And nonetheless I still write this gothic lovesong
|
| A sign to myself
|
| And the memory of my past
|
| I still write this gothic lovesong
|
| And the memory of my past
|
| And a way to shut out your face |