What do you see
In the dandy’s eyes?
Is it Nirvana,
Or is it death drive?
And how does it feel
When he asked to be killed
The double suicide
Would you die with him?
There’s nothing funnier than unhappiness
Old Beckett knows the best
I poured you glass of wine
While he was dying in the snow
I have no sympathy, I know
You’re my Beatrice
But for him, you’re not
He longed for death’s release
You should let him rot
Oh how fool of you
To let him screw
That carrier of the ennui,
Of that ‘maladie de la mort’
Living the life of cautionary tale
Unemployed, childish, and pale
He thinks he’s the setting sun of the fin de siècle
When will he grow up, who knows?
I guess he’ll die
For me to survive
We’re after all the same coin
Only on the different sides
Sometimes I see
Beyond reflections of me
The sacrificial dandy and Mr. Hyde
The overman and the monkey
The dandy must be sacrificed
For the artist to survive
So he could go on with life
He who knows ‘Art is dead, and we’re just necrophiles’
He could no longer be part of mine
So I’ll bury him deep
In the sandpit of time
Let him sleep
I’ll set no alarm
The only reality I happened to be
It's still required working and money
Embracing one’s death
As a secret rendezvous
Mind you, this is not the passion for the Real
But I love you, both of you