is that such a weight?

healing crystals?
pyramid power?
magical stones?
tarot and other decks?
past lives therapy?
spirit channeling?

islam?
communism?
socialism?

Oh, brother, you are low
and debased.
Are you not strong enough
to live standing tall,
letting your fierce eyes
show the flame of freedom
that lies behind?

Yet, you rushed to surrender
your most beloved treasure
to the first fraudster
who seduced you with their tunes.

You deserve no better
treatment that they will give you.

Why look for a master
outside your self.
You are your own master,
is that such a weight?

fear of free

We sat, perched atop
fallen remains,
stoned with the solvent's smoke.
Asleep on the cum-stained
crumble of dirty laundry
left by the left.
Coarse spoils of their theft.

The left behind are all of us,
trained to keep the fear aligned,
restrained and
not feral at all, tamed and
kept in line.
Don't let your face
betray a sign.
Shut your mind.

Let me start my car
and drive around aimlessly.
I want to poison
the air you and your friends
breath.
Let's all be levelled
in the sheenless shallow tomb
of stupidty.

Because I don't
swallow your iron age apocalypse,
and I wouldn't want
you shackles and gallows;
death would be better,
you know all about that.

I will clearly,
loudly and proudly
speak my hate if so I want,
for this is my right,
and my liberty
is not scary to me
as it is to you,
weakling who prefers
to burn it to chimeras
that exist only
in your religion.

I will take a shit
on your face and laugh
at you everytime.

Turban and swastika,
hammer and sickle.
The many shapes that
want to tie our wrists
with the biggest
dishonour there can be.

What happened to you?
Upon your head
only a tattery hatch.
What did you make
of the edifice of your blood?

Did you neglect your house?

fire

Let steel hulls crossbow
the warmer seas.
Their shores yearn
for our ravaging.

No more complacency
than fire's, the god
who bestows unto all equally.

War I

Their names unutterable,
like the veins of fire,
their anger,
unknown even to the licey goatfuckers
from the sands.

corpsefire plumes,
blood pool, sword and fire.
The fallen forest
of bowels in the daylight.
The stench finally let go.

Bringing caskets for everyone,
returning all heads
to the womb where there's no god.

Let them clean the bellies
of our tanks.
The gruelling recoil
of their stupity.

You left. Your little hands
no more than a wisp now.
The smallest of promises
gone in a pool of blood.

The tales tell there was
a wolf heart once inside,
but it is so tarnished now,
nothing is left of
its noble metal, coated
in cowardice,
the cloak of fear.

The crumbles in our
miserable chests
are afraid of liberty.

This is task
some cleaners will rise to.
Then we will see...

f.f.f.

first free fuck
fuck free first
first fuck free
free first fuck
freer fist fuck
fuck first free

I rarely feel beautiful, but
in those uncommon occasions
I dream of the big photographs
I'd take of myself,
if I had a pussy that I could
stuff with coins and notes,
maximising my consumer role
in a way that could be monetized
in an art gallery.

But then I have no cunt o'mine
to start with,
so this pantomime will have to wait
for science to catch up with art.

Some people seem to manage to live on and on on the dole, on a never-ending miraculous stream of income that enables them to live the squalor in such a way that it renders productive and artistic, which never ceases to amaze me, since it is such a high bet that anything will be just fine and that you would not die old and cold dreaming of radiators, trying to remember the taste of summers and good wine, but then, they started painting, and recording, and writing, and shouting, and even if no one was really listening, you have to concede them the merit of making such noise that some more coins fell, so they could stop to use the same tea bag thrice and even make it to Shoreditch, and not exactly on a pogo stick, as the saying goes, but then that was about a guy call Gsus, or something like that, and anyway I think I was way too drunk when I heard the story, and I thought to myself, there a short film in this, but then I too lazy, and I had to go back to the cold room to take care of them all, at which point I kinda lost track of this tirade, I think it was the fault of the snares

ugly and scabby

I had nothing to say
on that particular day.
My mind was silent
like eyeballs of stone.
And dry too,
like the wildfire season.

I reported nonevents
on three different
timetracking systems.

That tasted ugly and scabby.
I would have painted
the walls, but who cares anyway?

The girls kept their manes clean,
in spite of soot and dust.

The boys were lean and biting
molded by their urgent blood barechested.

We were very far apart.
Their solstice as if lit
by a sun older than time
but with the breaking drive
of all things new.