CULTURE WILL EAT ITSELF
Minimalist world -
Senses at ease,
programming withdrawn.
The exceptional, exception
laid bare.
Be unprepared -
to experience the
unexpected.
TIMELESS IN GAZA
Hyperbolic -
the runway
stripped.
Stay put
and mirror.
If you don’t
want to go
anywhere.
ABSEITS DER PROPAGANDA
Subventionswald,
Verdummungswald,
Vernichtungswald.
Kultureller Faschismus.
Jede selbsternannte Elite
hört sich gerne
alleine zu.
Einheitswahn ohne Moral -
pseudo-intellektueller
Kotzbrocken.
Mich kann keiner erzählen
ich wäre nicht
wach genug.
Dumme Loite,
schlaue Loite.
Alle schön eingepfercht
zur ideologischen Ver-
marktung.
GeldGier und
VerhöhnungsStrategie.
Linksfaschismus
oder Rechtsfaschismus -
genau so
skrupellos wie
die in der Mitte.
| Posted in German poetry | No Comments »
MA BU
Adagio. Well informed, holding no clue. There’s intellect missing. They sing a lot but miss the point. A furnished pedestal with clipped wings. What’s freedom without the drive to take any chances? This old man travels. Travels deep, far and off the cliff sometimes. I’m not looking for gain in their sense. It’s denigrating.
Fireworks and floppy disks. Pissing in your pants. Pissing in the fridge drunk not being able to find the bathroom. A morning hard-on filled to the edge. Bladder loaded. Out of order for ejaculation. Pointing it downward with force and aiming it very uncomfortably into the pot. An awkward bend over position. Having the control and restrain to stop in the middle before turning soft. An art in itself. Piss tube painting.
No more stories. No, no more stories. Not even news. Green custom skirts with slender tan legs. Pretty ladies wearing pretty smiles. Details, the details. Reality is made out of details that are more important than the overall picture. To see these buildings erupt and construct. Death toll, death toll. The freeway ain’t free, it’s a fucking lie.
SAVAGE CITY
Sprout the newest
insult – hype.
Burn leftovers.
Transmutation
that scorns.
MELANCHOLY BRIDGE
All things that
once were -
viable for
exploitation.
How shallow present
is compensated
by glorified past.
Vultures -
the money machine.
Dead matter
doesn’t talk
back.
TOP DRAWER
Think in terms of
a heart constellation.
Where sin got lost,
selfish sleeps on the
highest shelf,
and need -
is nothing more
than a smile to
give.
SOUTH POLE RISE
To arouse this resenting body into state of the art mayhem, thunderstorm and arctic freeze. A hunt for pain in the flesh, shock therapy and ice age written in red. I’m all out of poetry. It bores the shit out of me. I prefer decapitating my fingers by digging waterholes underneath northern glaciers, performing my nihilistic skills.
Dignity. Yes. Where is it? No, not honor. Just straight down to earth, basic dignity. I’ll have breakfast with enemies tomorrow you know, pretending to have a stone washed brain. Sanctified, petrified for a deal. In a nice suit and an impeccable posture. A natural fraud from the heart. Entertaining.
I’m carnage inspired and having a guillotine cold. Body temperature. It’s hard keeping pace, especially when not getting any and the fan club’s only pushing. Tenants, rushers and takers, wrecking my nerves, disturbing my flow. Get a fucking life. Leave me the fuck alone. My mind should shut up also.
From a small airplane window I view ice shelves floating, melting. Moles doing their job. A glacier’s halo rises to 30.000 feet. I’m tired, I believe it all. There’s stratosphere concrete. No more going in, no more going out. I turn my head to the side and close my eyes. I descend into this comfortable velvet mode carrying me away, and start to think of only one thing: Miss Universe blow me, down the hatch. Stimulate my pulse, throbbing. Take me down South.
07.10.10MANTRA +
Thank you for
reading.
Thank you.
Thank you
for reading.
Thank you.
STELLAR TALK – dedicated to Florant
This tall knight in
dark and shiny armor.
Handsome, strong -
intelligent.
Maybe a bit too
vain and
self-indulged.
He would do good,
he would have all -
but he got lost in
fourth and fifth
dimensions.
I met him again after
several years;
sitting in the backyard,
talking for hours on
present and
old days.
He intertwined the
gods, the universe and
pagan cults
into a transparent visual,
describing his position
within and
the confusion it
sometimes brought
upon him.
His double personalities,
the voices -
the common madness of
not being understood.
The psychiatric wards and
tranquillizers to keep his
agony somehow
tolerable.
To suffer in a world
between divine clarity and
single room despair -
in the best years
of his life.
And of course
there were the women -
heartaches from
delusional love,
with friends and foes
trading places.
How does one keep
sane -
in a society that is
not willing?
So after all
there’s so little to
go back to;
the gaps that
can’t be filled,
the scattered friendships that
didn’t hold on.
The noble volunteer,
always in for
a good cause.
He’ll always be a
fighter -
one of the
mythical kind.