We are not lovers, we have monsters’ hearts
our skins barely keep our lust inside.
We don’t need grace nor tenderness
and know things about bodies we shouldn’t know.
We display every part on screens, cameras,
phones, except our faces.
The tear in the eye is no longer needed.

Pictures below our waist signify everything.
In your blue-lit rooms, computers burn
as only parts of us burn
after six days of fucking without sleep.
At noon, icy stars have all sunk
in Absolut, flowers on balconies withered,
and spring lies in the pale glove on the floor.

We come and drink, and come,
and forget our way back to the world.
Hour by hour all is genitalia in frames.
We do it for you. You are insatiable.
Dogs lick our hands, birds drink in
the dirty bowls in the sink, they never sing
and we can’t stop.
No love is left.
Life is just one acid vase of cum.
We don’t speak about desire.
We film excitement. We do it for you.

Sometimes, we open a window to get some fresh air,
but you start the whole process all over again
and make us go round and round
like rats on wheels. There’s no exit.
Your hands are firm.
Our hearts never tremble.
At the idea of an empty sky, we never cry.
Instead we rim each other for dessert.
You see, you taught us god is not bread
but we are still extremely hungry.

What a pity.
Imagine if we’d never missed a meal,
if we’d never slept in the streets,
if we’d never thought more than twice of suicide.
In short, if we were children to all of you,
instead of being an anomaly,
or an industry.
We wouldn’t keep you company.