We have been performing
a very risky vulturing
on our crippled selves.

In the manner of a
jamming specialist,
we've poisoned with noise
our very entourages.

After the crash,
how will we rise again?

flashes from the future, 2

crippled, gouty,
senile and impotent,
the last self-confessed
socialist cunt
died a miserable death
today, thus
confirming the end
of one of the most
primitive
and brutal traits of man.

flashes from the future, 1

In 2021, a fundamental
sec flaw of chinese cumbots
made them develop
organic nanobased
vagina dentatas overnight.

C.F.

calling you cuntface
at the top of me fucking
rizla-cramped lungs
feels like cumming inside
no rubber, that is,
exhiralating and necessary.

herald of hurt

Homeric hero that knows
no homage, herald of hurt,
harbinger of harm and
hounds of hell howling
that wants to see the blood
of others spilling clear
for no superior purpose
other than be learnt by heart
and terror holy.

Push the brakes hard,
the net is cast,
over overcast skies,
must escape home
to hover aloft and
hail the mist of the soul
in this new age
where retreat is the holy land,
and we all want to hitch
a ride to the shopping mall.

How I felt this very second

Difícil ejercicio
el de sostener elegantemente
la desesperación tranquila,
ese mar de vegijas calientes,
vientres de gas y astillas
esparcidos por los días,
que nos encoge y apaga los ojos.

Mourn

I mourn for a world
that gulps pink slips
in the most futile of toasts
to a non-waking dream
of how to spend it.

We'll burn all the grandeur
to be warm for a few days,
then, when all is gone,
and mostly forgotten,
what will be made of our rags?
A final bonfire banal?
Is there any courage left,
or are we truly without honor
or strength, fat and tired?

From the East, the boxes
parachuted, get ready
to dress the beggar's dress.
Not the designer-brand
100$ beggar-like t-shirt,
but the real shit.

cold Brixton morning

cold Brixton morning,
the terraces look bored,
same as the dreaded eyes.
Hot tea, frozen windows,
ganja and incense rolls.

Outside the Iceland,
half-baked warriors,
on weekends,
pose as self-styled victims
on the odd giro days.

crass

A waking dream filled with
the terrifying noise
of boots in the dark.

That's the way the world goes round

The distorted voices,
alive with the primitive madness,
the sense of crass victory,
howling proximity.

Torturers must have their way,
the illusion of progress.

Propelled fears, pulsating
in the once-pristine
halls of the State,
which now flaunts its fiery fangs.

Everyone convinced,
that's what they want.