the last moon count

I thought I won’t write here any­more but now I have no choice?
 

I can’t be­lieve it —
The one with the ideas
Is the one they don’t need
Be­cause they are all en­slaved and suck­ing it up

Soon the light fades to the oth­er and ever more darkness
The lights go out
The cur­tain falls from the ceiling
Au­di­ences leave

Why did you ever go here?
There is noth­ing to see here?!
There nev­er was!!

What an anticlimax!

I fi­nal­ly got what’s wrong with the world, I’m the last one left
And the cov­er­age is spotty

And every­one around is small mind­ed and pe­tit bour­geoisie, pet­ty civ­il behavior
that’s why I get nowhere

Scan­dals, grudges
Ret­ri­bu­tion against the uninvolved
Blasé talk shows
Trapped on an escalator
In­door be­hav­ior constructs
The last phas­es of everyone’s failure 

You proved it
You did­n’t want your name in my book
I’m so alone
I did­n’t even re­al­ize it
I thought
you loved me
but
now I know the truth
it does­n’t get better
 

So what we need is padded cells for all love
 
 
 
 
 

It’s all empty
My fu­ture is all empty
Every­thing is dead and will die
and
no one de­serves my palaces
All pet­ty love deny­ing civ­il people
Thats what’s hold­ing me in
The lord of the rings, all that
It’s over, no one be­lieves, not even if they love me be­lieve they, they sac­ri­fice every­thing for a nor­mal world
We need padded cells for love
We need padded cells for love
 
 

Every­one says every­one is unique, as some kind of con­for­mi­ty, some kind of plu­ral­ist hypocrisy, be­cause when you don’t at­tach to the hive mind and speak for your­self, they are em­bar­rassed, and they don’t grant you the soil on which you walk

What­ev­er trag­ic poi­son and ro­mance isn’t it? 

TO ac­cept re­al­i­ty, to ac­cept that you just need to wear your nor­mal clothes and not keep up ap­pear­ances, be done with the goth­ic and the punk and the shield­maid­ens in ar­mor, we just go­ing to con­tin­ue our zom­bie walk un­til all slides in the desert and dies

THAT re­al­i­ty is what we need to ac­cept, and that re­al­i­ty is the poi­son of this Romeo and Juli­et, of which their sto­ry will not be remembered
Be­cause re­al­i­ty, is death
 
 

That’s your truth
You thought me well
I lis­ten to you
You leave me to rot and want to own it when it happens
But it can’t hap­pen be­cause every­one leaves me to rot
You tell me to go to oth­er people
There was re­al­ly no one to go to cause every­one said the same
So here ends our story
 
 

Romeo and Juli­et are dead
Re­al­i­ty killed them
And ide­al­ism, is just an­oth­er utopia, noth­ing will work, noth­ing works, there is noth­ing, be­cause that works
The life­less death of our soul works
 

If you don’t be­lieve in fiction
You be­lieve ac­tors are great
You don’t be­lieve the stories
You be­lieve stop mo­tion pup­pets are more im­por­tant then the sto­ries they tell
And in that there is not but emp­ty walls now

And you have nothing
But stum­bling around un­til it all dies
The salute to lift you up and not hold you down is in vain

Be­cause you rather be very small
You rather be very big, but to rec­og­nize some­one superior
The no­ble war­rior does not exist
Its just about sit­ting there, watch­ing ever dumb­er programs
dumb­er de­ci­sions that af­fect everyone
And telling the world
You have no idea how to share this story
 
 
 
 

Noth­ing
That is what the prophets have said
And every­one listened

And if you want to stand out of that
You will be alone

It was coura­geous and ro­man­tic our last meeting
It goes in against any convention

But we should, make it rel­a­tive, and laugh at our idle at­tempts of be­ing romantics

Lost in a world of idle laugh­ter, march­ing into abyss
And the uni­verse will collapse
It might as well
We won’t be here very long

There is no pur­pose I can give you be­cause no one ac­cepts my purpose
It goes against individualism

Do you choose to be de­voured by passions?
Or die with emptiness
 

Peo­ple don’t say why why why
They say you can’t you can’t you can’t
That’s why Sa­tan failed to free mankind
And be­stow him beau­ti­ful sins
Thats why art is futile

Dress­ing the cus­toms of the age
In that – it is status
In that – it is trivial
The tru­ly dec­o­ra­tive could nev­er be re­al­ized so it could nev­er be useful
Like simps for dairy and muscle
It’s just entertainment

There will nev­er be a cir­cle of fire
Be­cause they all en­ter­tained egos

In en­ter­tain­ment they have found their individuality

No one needs strong char­ac­ter and leadership
They will not re­spect it
What is true? The suc­cu­bi that fell for Satan?
Or the oth­er side as Al­fred Ku­bin said?

But dream­world will nev­er be
Be­cause he wrote it that way

In that, there is just men­tal patients
And cubes, a hive with­out a purpose
An emp­ty box

Psy­chi­a­try, the emp­ty box

A but­ter­fly that was still­born in his cocoon
You don’t believe
You don’t be­lieve in fiction
That was where you failed
Now be­lieve this story
And the last ro­man­tic poem be­fore this and every­thing is effaced
Erase­to­ber of the civ­il, the po­lice, the armies, the re­put­ed lead­ers, the train­ing data trash, vam­pire ma­chines, slop mak­ers on their knees
dis­per­sion, drink­ing, drinking

Every­one has chosen
There is no Satan
I am not Satan
We don’t have to do this even if I am not Satan
Be­cause then there is noth­ing to be­lieve in

It is so that the love of my life con­vinced me that every­one should lead a com­mon life
And in that there is no one to set ideals to solve things

I loved them, so I lis­tened and took it
And now there is no more love

We ac­cept a civ­il life and that it’s just not possible

They are not with me
No one is

If even love is not with me
Then noth­ing is with me

I don’t be­lieve that and that is why i must car­ry the sun of empti­ness to the end
But it only mat­ters what oth­ers be­lieve, that’s what they believe

In the light of the end of phi­los­o­phy even love dies now
If you be­lieve not what oth­ers believe
You will have only a palace full of loneliness
The last phase of everyone’s failure

I am immortal
But I am with­out love
I could sit this end out
I could sur­vive it
I could even solve it
But there is no love
So now my ship­wreck clock that I built for eter­ni­ty pound­ing love and death
Must strike for the last time
And crush my heart

 

—tris­ti­tia languorem

Flom­mist Tris­ti­tia Lan­guorem eats tragedy. They have many names but it doesn’t change much the whole premise of the ideals. Antwerp, Bel­gium is where home is. It’s time for a fresh start. Copy­right © 2025 Tris­ti­tia Languorem.

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