The ballad of Twilight Hotel and of Hell

Green.  


In Twilight Hotel and Hell there is a sun that golds in green the wooden rooms up.




There aren't passengers, just ghosts of.


This Lady all spiderwebs, and sugar, she roams through these corridors at.




Because the night never comes on Twilight Hotel, into our perpetual evening, into our humble and deceptive dream.


Our humble and deceptive dream.


You see, the furniture still remains green and as intact as neglected; and a crystal doll for.






The fandango of times will never ever leave its patina here.
Just the Sun, and other lions.






Is this strange, Antonella?






If one day I fall victim of your love, I want to fall in Twilight Hotel; where an essence of the Laura Antonelli's buttocks is caressed by the perfume of the ravioli.



In Twilight Motel, and Hell.






Could she recognize our stray steps? Our anguished pantings.


If one day I become you, and you become I.


Is this strange, Christine?




Do my nightdreams come from my cerebral cells?
Or from the muscles of the sky.






... I fall, but a strange force moves me forward: it's a metaphor the force, it fits in a fist, the metaphor.


No matter how pouring the storm can be, when I'm crying, I'm still loving you.


And the sun shines out there
and I'm buried in ice
I just see all black; rage! Rage! Rage!


Enraged like a Velázquez boiling into a pot full of vipers and venom.






The darkness whispers in mysterious ways... I dreamed of a heavy storm, the rain falling on stairs of light, it was in 1990 and I ran desperately across the blue streets of summer.


The neon, the taxis of the night and a happy crowd of Norwegian eyes saw me running... my heart was destroyed, I was barefoot, and running reached the downtown, which was in the middle of the night, although my retina saw sunny streets.
I woke up asking the question:






2)
There will never be a place in your heart for me?






When the Amphetamine Queen cries tears of velcro in the mirror
then the pale fanfare plays a sick pasodoble... so the fear assaults me.
This place is empty, baby.






3)
The poison of the wind speaks silently tonight... it talks about things that are completely lost for me.


And this place is empty without you.


My sweet life.


Blindfolded in a June morning sun, lonely airwaves, desert streetwalls of a London's Sunday morning.



[If I die tonight


If I abandon this blue blue world...


... I'd wish to be laid over a nazi tomb


Like someone who is crucified to the pain


and all covered in gasoline and spits
to be burned to the ground.


To the bones.


To the blood.


To burn high... if I abandon this gray world tonight.






... And if the furious city of the suicidal ones calls for me one day, will your Heathen Street remember?
Remember me.]






4)
Suddenly, a sweet voice like a sigh spoke:

"How long will you put advices in your heart with sorrow?"

I looked to the right and to the left, no one was there.




The concavous sound of thunder was heard on the avenue of the wolves when I found myself in the scandalous afternoon.




The city or Paradise of the suicidal ones was then a vision in my eyes.


There were deep lakes like amber


It was like a garden infested by black plants, the most humane of them all.


There were men-faced swans, their feet were esparto, and their chest was pus.


Their wings were gauze passing by, like whispers... a pale and small sun was hanging from a pink sky full of noise.


Noise of exasperation, noise of sincere feelings, noise screaming for justice.


That sky was crying... because it was alive?






5)
If my nightsong made you cry, the bridges to Dieppe are encircled by a morning haze.


If the hours are a river of chrome, diamonds, light & steel, you are the shores.


If I'm all horror, and all shades, at least the sun will shine out there for you.


... And even the Sun finds its loving fullness on the Earth, Christine

(and sometimes I wonder if everything I do is wrong, and sometimes I wonder if everything I do is wrong).

Because when the Christ sweated blood, when big drops of blood fell from his forehead... only the love that leads to madness and to death.



If you are a river of chrome, diamonds, light & steel, the time is your shores.






6)
In Twilight Hotel there is a sun that golds in green the wooden rooms up.


There aren't passengers, just ghosts of.

This Lady all spiderwebs and sugar, she roams by the corridors at.


Because the night never comes on Twilight Hotel, into our perpetual evening, into our humble and deceptive dream.

Our humble and deceptive dream.