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.
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