fashion hexameter
divathexaméter
due to the exhaust gas lack of air
drunkenness fights with strong language

  • your is the sumptuous rotting brain
    and I’m shackled by your slow eyelid
    you’ll try to dig up my unwashed memories soon
  • and the keys fit in the lock and can turn
    even a shepherd like me can croon
    if the wretched formula gets a pattern
    the dawn trained me to the instinctive divinity
    my blood is a spark – a Hungarian symbol, no doubt
    whose existence is open to infinity
    but the wheel of fortune is turned inside out
    only poetry is authentic by night
    the monk beckoned ordering
  • where we were carving the good words with a knife
    psalm glows within the reading
    the footprint burned to the bone remains a sign
  • until the budding was tormented anew
    I stir my wild thirst into wine
    where the days and nights are few
    there is nothing left but the music of the night
    my up-to-date harp smokes up to your lips
  • fashion has entered the waters of the springs bright
    which is tamed by your hollow instinct