I want a cat to live on my windowsill

I want to have a windowsill

I dream of being at home

But you don't care about any of that

And I no longer have a home

And wool allergies cannot be hidden behind a handful of medications

In my skull the sea is drowning in own emptiness

And Stalin and Hitler talk and argue

Hitler admits his mistake of June 1941

Stalin laughs and the corpses crunch under the bed

Tomorrow will be a different time

A bird feather lies on an imaginary windowsill

A bird's feather can no longer be considered a feather due to the absence of a bird

Red cities freeze like statues

Black stars burst like veins

You're not interested in me like you used to be

You throw my heart under a train onto the tracks

Jesus and Faust got tangled in my pubic hair

Even they can't give me advice

So I wither like a hydrangea in the wool of days

I wither without you and I wither and I without you

Quiet

Loudly

My silence is the cry of a newborn and a dying man

After all a newborn is just as lonely

And monsters crawl out from behind the closet to lull me into a cradle