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It’s Sunday morning, 9 AM –
time to get off bed.
Wash my oranges and peel my face,
prepare my Sunday clothes and lock away your bottles.
When I go meet my creator, where will you be?

It’s Sunday morning, 9 AM –
I’m running away from you.
I’ll put my tie on and until ten
I will do what I do
to keep my monster away.

It’s Sunday and my bells ring noon
this is my meeting 24
I have lost count of all my chances
to poison my body as I did my soul.
I’m losing this fight
for freedom of perception.
I’m losing.

It’s Sunday – and I sit in church
listening to others‘ gibberish
of their losses and their victories
of their thirst and perverted thoughts.

We’ve been told not to look for God in a bottle
but we can look for wine in a church.

This is alcoholics unanimous
and, boy, are we getting drunk.


It’s thrilling to be an ocean storm
playing with seas, with waves
catching lost fishermen into thy rhythm
of danse macabre

It’s so frustrating to be a storm
following lines some damn meteorologist drew for you
fulfilling all their bad scenarios – what will grow of you?
finding approval in the madmen

It’s so tempting to be a storm
fighting for your own name
destroying what’s bad, creating what’s new
making your own future

It’s so terrifying to be an ocean storm
all eyes of the world fixed on you
judging: who will you be?
Shall you be good, or bad?

And in a maniodepressive juxtaposition
                             you are both.