it is all them crazy gods who decide the righteousness of the show.
who don’t know but revile and establish the bobbing of the head.
the head that cannot hold a single cracker but to eat shit for glories.
not of human palate’s taste. even to die because of the lexicon of who is under threat of Being Alive: other wise: Desire, the angelic ember that began with the friendship of growth and Humanity, not to be eradicated. slogging through the mire for redemption.
I don’t want to gape aloud and leave all good dreams to fling themselves into stinging heat. I want to take them back and spit on the mirage. the price of increased infinities. the hypocritically studied forms of progress. the contrived order of opportunism.
terrible as a lamb looking you sarcastically in the eye.
it is every day business as usual between martini lunches and the dawn of the dead. pinning on of plumage for soirees with the king of shame.
is it ever
in some brains
the old poison
the strange substance
the embalming metastasis.
how deep in the ground have they dug their hole?
will the bones rise when the plasticity of their feats cannot be digested?
will the fake values of correctibility prevail in continuing the soap-opera? mumbling indignant nuances of nonsense?
the sheen of corruption is always rubbed with the oil of law.
the mind formed, body formed by the need to excel by the use of paternal or external, otherwise idealized images of a forcefully bent collar-terral, the casual-teas (blood/substance )
also to feed the war testicles.
miracles wasted on the gigabytes of horror.
***
Exfrexia
glass with no refreshing drink
no elixir of life, of love
no warm sacred bowls
no soft starry nights
the city is a cage
a cage is a prison
a web of suffocating grids
our pillow of stone
our blanket of night
the wind through these streets
offers nothing but death…
a tear fills this chalice
a tear that’s been shed
a hundred-a million times salty/sweet
a shiny marble lost
a kid found it
to be lost and found again:
that kid with no name
that question mark on the pavement
that hope in mid-air.
Far flung sayings from Near by
When shoes are tied on backwards,
the rabbit’s foot brings no good luck.
When many hands eclipse the sun,
the stars are not our friends.
Negotiations are not horny.
More of more makes more space between us.
Planets flirt under their epidermal loneliness.
A tree cannot be challenged to lay down its cards.
Love is a second-hand trumpet.
Peace-keepers wear fake flipper hats that flop in my eyes.
No one purports violence only preemptive ingrown nails.
Don’t burn the skeletal confidence of oceanic memory.
To be a haddock is to know all kinds of hooks.
National flavours stew rapidly in empty pots.
Two hands full of confetti, one dash cynicism, a bolt of fury- pow!
Fatty tissues boil in blocks of sulphuric holograms.
They are bears who weep now.
***
Euskera is an incantation of sturdy fibres and rough vibrations flung further than a ship can sprawl. tiny universes
nourished by song and elementary sparks.
Old wisdom is accommodated by slick powerhouses, (regal instigations), industrial yawhoos who sever the vine roots with a strange unease at savageness.
imagination amputation
guaranteed zombification
vampiric colonization
digital identification
enhanced fortification
of illegal immigration
mercantile coagulation
qhemical anhillation.
