Wednesday, 11 December 2013

Reading Kosovel, this poet dude from around these parts who wrote hard and died young. And I can't help but to think, reading him, that he knew exactly when he was going to die. He was probably a sickly kid from the get go. Old-school nerd. Am inspired by morbid, erotic lyricism in consequence. Say

Lays there anything more beautiful
On this earth
Than a combatant man
Without a shirt
Bleeding out
In my arms
Warm still only from my lust. 

I should probably go pack to reading The Book Thief. It was cheerier.