Shit

the impossible weight
of boredom
and the sense of futility,
as crushing
as a giant monolith,
burying me alive
in a tomb of numbness
and regret.

London night

Walking home
back from work,
late,
in the foggy cold
sobering London night,
with the silencey noise
of the city,
roar of life,
perched high
atop concrete flyovers.

The train carries me
in the dark,
approaching Sheperd's Bush
in the weak sodium glare
of late shops.

I walk home,
feeling
nothing at all,
it is strange,
to just be alive,
aware, quiet,
at peace,
for once,
not rummaging,
just perceiving,
awake,
sensing,
fearless,
open.

and the last thing they will see

and the last thing they will see
is the lights going black and green
and the cold wind coming from behind
with fury unseen,
tearing it all apart,
with might, greed and grind,
blowing among the ruins of their
broken utopia,
crashing among the bazaar stalls
of a failed future forever.

They won't even have time
to sail away from the flaming shore.

You

You made my life
the bitterest of drinks
like salt water
in a shore far from home
when I am thirsty,
the hardest trip
through a land
once familiar,
now laid to waste,
when I am homesick.

You sapped all of
my strength and nobility
with your idiocy
and despondency;
Good weapons they are,
I must admit,
and they do work fine,
for they could overpower me
way faster that water
breaks the stone of ages.

If we lived in an age
of honor, not weakness,
I should kill you,
for you deserve not better.

Song I

the earth filled
with new sounds,
new screams,
ever heard,
new whispers
speaking of spleens
and sorrows unheard,
unhealed,

and there will be no respite
and no deferment,
in the intention of betrayal,
no pause when hands take to axes

Now it begins
to dawn on you,
the truce preceded the cull,
the noise after the lull

and there will be no respite
and no deferment,
in the intention of betrayal,
no pause when hands take to axes

A Scene

I am quietly sitting laidback,
savouring my breakfast
as the towers of the world
collapse all around me
noiselessly.

The shadow of the corporate hq
no longer standing tall
and overwhelming
like a drunk father,
more of a fallen giant now,
the laughing stock
of a relieved flock.

People and turists
were shooting pics
from the storefronts
at the end of the street.
I was watching the scene
from behind the bakery's glass,
tasting the crumbles
of what seemed to be
the last muffin of globalisation.

No worries but,
the oven is on again,
hotter this time,
more cookies on the way, sir.
Organic,
fair trade cocoa,
soy beans and vitamins.

But, behold!,
already pick up the debris
and broken bricks,
resell what steel might be salvaged
and the same with all that glass.

Yet another corporate poem

There was talk of layoffs
and downsizings.
Middle management midgets
were all fidgety and excited,
palmpilot heroes
heralding new ages in,
tense, timorous, touchy,
the unsung martyrs,
hands on the direful banner
of shareholders' interest.

But people were just talking
quick to have a fag
on the last wind at noon.
All fed up and with raspy throats,
warming up to the upcoming rain,
that would cleanse us all
one by one,
woman and man,
whether unconcerned or bland,
or saucy and brash.

Fuck Me Beige!

Yo! fuck me beige,
or fuck me gray,
but please be sure to
toss some nuts my way;

I am your faithful
squirrel in the treadmill,
all tamed up
and willing to be heavily taxed
to feed
all them official parasites.

Yo! paint my skin
with a monitor-glare blush,
all uniform
and unwilling to speak up to you,
spineless crud without a clue.

Yo! give me that thick
company pol'cy binder,
'cos I need retraining
as a quiet servant,
sanitized, neutered,
another member of the satisfied
watercooler gang.

Black

black I have seen
through my window at night.
An impenetrable dark,
a stark black bark
that covers my sight
and clouds my judgement
with all sort of fears.

To all little trendy lefty cunts

Hey, see me here,
I'm coolly sipping some Merlot here,
proud to wear Che on my chest,
and the intifada hanky too;
hey, they distinguish me
as one of them not fooled by the system,
no, I am one of the
revolutionary illuminati
who never had a struggle in their life,
who had good schooling
and invariably ate warm when kids.
As a young person,
I have disposable income,
wear the brands of the moment,
appreciate the habits of the bourgeois
but hey, I need to save face,
screaming at the top of my little lungs
how lefty I am,
how cool Che, Castro and Stalin are,
how Capitalism is a major fuck up,
but hey, don't take my car keys from me,
don't take my safe cozy bed from me,
don't take these brand garments from me,
hey, those fucking hands off my Mac.

Giant Squid

You look to me like
a fucking giant squid,
all slimey and treacherous,
hidden from sight
and encloaked
in a darkness of debris
of your making,
your ink being no different
than a smoke screen.

Your eyes reveal nothing
when stared at,
indistinguishable from glass,
cold and dead,
made from the sand at
the bottom of the sea.

I admire your skills
in resisting underwater pressure,
moving at ease
in the viscosity of the medium.

Maybe I, as a little fish,
should hold on to your wake,
see where it takes me,
but that would be
an enormous exercise of trust.

Untitled

Can you measure the depth of a pit
with the help of a flute?

even if it is fathomless?

How about digging up a hole in the snow
with it?

even if it is ice-hard?

mistaken trains

I lost all drive, will,
to such an extent
that strange music
would draw me to unknown cities;
to such an extent
that I would ride mistaken trains,
thru' isolated environs,
riding and living
devoid of all purpose,
hearing only
the clavichord music
coming out of nonexistant windows.

A question

this ocurred to me
at the end
of a particulary
frantic day...

"if there is a blowfish,
why isn't there a fuckfish?"

...so it seems
the brain
makes some loose contact
between figments of darkfiber
inside the head


UPDATE: 01.October.08

After googling the term "fuckfish" I found the following affirmation:

the flying fuckfish is the primary source of food fo the flying fuck

Found at
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=flying%20fuckfish

nice!

but then I wasn't really thinking
of flying whatsoever.