Chci aby se lidé na pár minut zastavili a poslechli si Otoč to na Mnichov. Uvědomili si ,že v těch hrůzách kolem nejsou sami, jsme v nich všichni….z komatu po nehodě jsem se z normálního světa probral do noční můry, kdy je všechno najednou jinak…., fantazie je meč i štít. Hranice reality mizí. Pod povrchem je bolest, ovšem i dobro, za všechno se přesto platí.
I want people to stop for a few minutes and listen to Turn It Over to Munich. They realized that they are not alone in the horrors around us, we are all in them …. From a coma after an accident, I woke up from a normal world to a nightmare, when everything is suddenly different …., fantasy is a sword and a shield. The boundaries of reality are disappearing. There is pain beneath the surface, but also good, but everything is still paid for.
My Winter Witch.
As space-time is curved by matter,
I am curved by You.
You're driving me crazy.
In the distant snowy mountains,
tree may have fallen to the ground laden with ice,
someone heard it,
It's still you,
my Beauty Winter Witch.
Turn it over to Munich.
The barrel of the pistol was an antler cake,
the barrel of the pistol was a ticket to the ending show,
the relentless itching of the skin dominated the cockpit,
backrests soaked with malice.
The parked crocodile set off,
he ran after the prey,
you are his sharp tooth
you are his clenched jaw,
you are everything and more.
Oxygen jellyfish above me,
they descend to the surface,
Turn it over to Munich,
turn it over to Munich,
turn your eyes to me,
turn it around.
When the engines shut down,
we are just uninvited guests on the Baalbek terrace, applauding.
Turn your life to Munich,
Your beauty is boiling oil,
flowing down the walls,
squeaking skin, dancing in flytraps.
Turn it over to Munich.
She smiled, pulled the pilot lever toward her, the machine headed for the cool, freezing height,
Air… is not needed when I can breathe You,
Something is hidden in the perception of time,
something is hidden in the perception of time,
When the darkness opens,
we will go despite the time of laughter, we will go to the grove of Persephony,
light rhythmic chants on the lips.
You came down to me,
from the star.
Turn it to Munich or not!
Turn it to the moon,
we hang ourselves in a balloon basket on his crescent,
we will spend our lives there, it is ground to dust,
by swallowing the beating heart of the weasel,
one can be closer to the Goddess,
Thee i worship now.
I wrote this poem for You, for reading in a special, special place.