Your faces

your faces, pierced
with leper's toothpicks.

I placed myself in a field
far from all schools
and stenches, off the coast
in imaginary seas,
cold and blue and full of tempest.

There, romance ends,
hit by lightning and
dice are rolled by thunder,
cast away
to the lighthouse
of the modern conscience.
Iron away the creases
of cognitive dissonance.

Your faces, sown
together with hiv'ed needles.

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divination services.
We specialize in ouija consulting,
and tarot outsourcing.

Oh man, the poisons we were selling,
back in the day.
Kites for solar winds
and what not.

Your eyes, in hooks
like greedy fishes.

Brick by brick, the enthralling
enclosure we build.
Blind bald workmen in benches,
carpenters of decay.
Oak-framed and mummified.

Las sirenas marcan la hora
del bocadillo.

The amazing persistence
of life, even in the face
of utter dismay.
If only my shirts could remain
that starched half as long...

This surely brought about
the hammered nausea that
got us here.

The second canto is born among cottons,
but it never caught on.
The mob had fallen in the wrong hands.
Their hats, blunt and rounded,
like an old moral code,
lay trodden on the floor,
like an old moral code, too.
Confusiond, unacknowledged,
and disarrays, the banners
of the fray
sported most often today in our cities.

The invocation:
Pazuzu, snakepenis,
blow the dust that covers
our foreheads.
(a desperate calling, when you don't know
anymore who to turn to).

We demand from them not only
to show us the way, but also
to pave it for us.
In return, we give you our freedom,
which we didn't know what to do with
for starters.

CHOIR:
Metal clocks vibraphone away
the passage of time.
The martian air distorts their sound
as the lemonade evaporates.

(with black metal keyboards)
Terraced houses and mortgages.
Daydreaming by the watercooler.
The middle-class and their
many metamorphoses.

We will meet at the hotel
and the end of the world.
In its vast halls, we'll mourn
the literature lost.
Erotic Napalm Arcadia.
Stones from the islamic moon
to reconfigure you.
(END CHOIR)

The last fuck before the war
begins, or ends.
It doesn't matter.
When the war ends we are
all also drafted for service anyway.

Now the war is clean, since
the leaves are swept in autumn
- that's municipality for you -
and the tea is iced in the scorch.
The ties are finely pressed
and the voice hardly ever rises.

No bullets. Just boredom.
Gott und Vaterland?
There are no more such things.
Give the young wolves booze and pills.
Their sap drunk by demons
altogetherly different from ours.
They no more interested than me
in inheriting a stale chair.
Forever doesn't exist anymore
in our planned procurement.

CHOIR:
Welcome relativism.
Embrace the new faith.
Can you fight a war if you are ecked out?

Enter the chaos.
(In a pinstriped suit, of course)
(END CHOIR)

We used to drink a lot.
At least that way, some escape
still belonged to us.
I think it all boils down to escaping.
The recurring dream.
Now it's all fitness and vegan.
When did it all began?

Yes, I think it was the meddling
and their stupid marxist ideas.
Thieving cunts.
Flowers before the flag,
and abuse crushed by boots.

The salarymen of repression advance.
Genocidal mood for a pittance.
Minimum wage earners with guns and gas.
Indentured soldiers
with ample powers and tazers.

Their hands on the naked hips of the people.
Puppets in hiding, anxious to fornicate.
Getting some leverage from the seats
of intolerance.
Angry voices could be perceived through the air
those days.

The picture shows a pack of old dogs
jealously watching over their spoils.
The rest are just tired warriors.
The had too much food through the years.
In the barricades they all started
(much boasted origins, ha!).
They never looked back,
bloated coffers for ever more.
Even the poor ravens starved,
for their greed was so much
that corpses were not left around.

Meanwhile, the layman of the day,
spent many waking hours
daydreaming the neo-rural fanfare
of escapism.
They wanted back to the status
of the noble and proud owner-farmer,
as if that had ever existed.
The man king in his own plot,
the plot that had been taken from him
with different ruses.

CHOIR:
And then a heavy curtain of silence,
deafening, muting birdsong
like an avalanche when the thaw threatens.
The common man found himself
in an old hut. His back was sore.
His son plucked a leather instrument.
He looked longingly at the sword
hanging behind the door,
the faithful blade that yearned for the summer
more that the cold-blooded animal,
hidden away in the sleep of the soil.

The man relished the strength of his muscle
and the gory ruthlessness of his gods.
The winter was crude, but hey, we have mead.

Suddenly, the traffic lights came into his reverie,
crashing in like a burning train.
The fallen man also had a back sore,
from so much sitting and pondering, pensive,
where honour had gone.

There is still hope in this man.
Others have lost the ability to wonder what.
Their necks where the weakest,
I pity their children, for they won't see
the lightning.
Goodbye to heaven.
(END CHOIR).


Remember to pick up dinner on your way back,
the harsh buzzed voice said.
(the warrior to his beloved
words he'll never have to guts to speak)
I couldn't be alone. Tell me how I should be.
I hold you. You hold me.
You mitigate my weaknesses.

The blood of another winter
is the background of the family meeting.
Flowers, instruments of vexation,
in their decrepitude installed,
marking the middle of the table,
the brocaded altar of the house.