Realism

If the glass bends
What can I know

If the show ends
What can I know

This veil beholds me
A fairground fight

My laughing tears
Are so damn real

I think therefore I
Am I a fucking ghost then?

These pillars are my mount
From which these shadows are aghast

If the glass bends
Dehydration bathes me

Bryonia

There are ghosts in these pretty walls
and they explode against the glass

Like the climbing ivy they are selfish and greedy
though a rare beauty that leans and churns

There are ghosts in these numerous walls
and they make haste to shun the past that

never leaves them. Like they never leave here.
Glow with the lights on and pass the time

in a still silence. Only the parakeets lay claim
to those crumbling fields, but there are ghosts

in these crumbling walls.