Stuhl des Krieges

and i guess that where the armchair rests, fire on fire, blood on lips of the beholder we shake so silently, watching, the murk and dust that slides into the damp fissures, escalating all quiet and solemn; n o b o d y s i t s h e r e a n y m o r e and i hate it and i scream at my armchair and at my white blank and staringeyes living room walls with the ivy ivy ivy all stuck to the walls with its glue green fingers; God help me i scream, but i do not like the Maker, 'cause he is so wrong wrong wrong and people are dying up and down and in water and dust-on-face malice weapons that crack alive the dry yellow morning sky, why can it not be me with gunshots in my brain and tumorous absyss' - a hole of death for those alive to rot? oh gently - and army coat smothered in mucus and filth and sloppy tears and pain and squeals from the craggy rock edges as the next hit little boy, (only gone to do his daddy proud) is launched like an
elastic thunderbolt
into extinction,
and all i can do is stand and scream FUCK at my red armchair, it's legs all knotted twists of pine, hot brown toastlike coloured, almost edible. why do they get ripped apart at the seams, fucked for following their dreams? brady with the buttoned up/down shirt, pale blue stripe and black plimsolls used to sit on my red armchair on sundays, drink my firehot tea from the mug with the rainbow on but now he is dead in dust all alone and that's all i can say