Beast of Power

It's not like there's a mess... Just imagine: I'm going, killing everyone on the way to the north.
Everyone who was once dear to me and now confuses my thoughts. I have a simple intention:
become something between yourself and the wind.
Any sea wants to turn from black to white.
It looks like a blank shot: the overcoat of the sky turns gray under your head...
Don't tie the blue nun's scarf on me. I memorized Psalm 115 while falling on my face.
There they threaten to leave without a permanent body resembling a lyre.
Against the backdrop of the Western Wall in Jerusalem. They call this condition insanity, such as delirium.
Yes, they are real suckers, I think carefully, like “to myself”:
Einstein's time becomes too long, then boomerangs back.
Heels back as insomnia comes, golden like a nightingale theme,
singing without commas a reminder of the coming decay on the marble clouds of Eden.
You walk and wander like a brown, lop-eared deer. You lean your hot horns against the trunks.
Not to where there is no moss, but from the side where the terrible north is...
You deny palm oil and soy starch isolate. Pure child of the ghetto!
...Sometimes we are painted by drunken artists and photographed by gay paparizzi photographers.
For them, we seem to be bare outlines around skeletons, by cold occupation summer.
The last time I looked into my eyes, I clearly saw that I had not been there for a long time. That the night will soon end with the lawlessness familiar to everyone from childhood.
These bitches are hiding colors from us. Even colored snow!
...Only the mirror preserves (with return!) your departure along the rails diverging on the arrow, depraved.
Now listen: walls always lack depth. They have cold veins.
They are hungry, and not naked as the goat-poets write. Therefore, you need to be careful and keep an eye on everyone.
Sniffing naked bodies
count the numbers of torn buttons, stumbling on the number twenty-two...
Something incomprehensible in the gaps in the sky... looks like skis... some kind of crap...
I feel bad, but I'll continue:
I remember I was weaving something about looking when the light hurts my eyes
and the glass head rattles excitedly on the limply thrown hands...
Well, you bastards, have you guessed that fate is a wall, chipped with meaningless phrases scratched with a fingernail?
...It’s the creaking of the heart, not the steps spinning over crumbs. The usual nonsense like division by zero.
Collects coordinates of intercourse and moans of ecstasy fucking Google. Quotes, fagot...
Ask, why do you need this?
Phoo, kaka. Like, “what disgusting...”, - I twist my disgusted profile, - are you fucking crazy?, you want me to live as a poisonous short puffer fish... Once again, “phoo”...
...The days are confusing. How many of them are there in a week? It seems like every other day is Monday.
It seems that the voices of the orderlies like your hair after a bath are becoming softer.
This is followed by the disappearance of the borrowed items.
Gradually. How they walk holding onto the wall, as if negativity is manifesting: the most important thing is about to manifest itself...
...The beast of Power awaits you ahead! Laughter gurgles in my throat like in a toilet. It's not humiliating.
...First you remove all the artificial Chinese silk.
There are sort of fish scales underneath. Tickly? So there's something else underneath...