20 lutego 2012
Death To Post Modernism: A World Fractured...Not Divided
Four handsome men
sing lullabys:
security
oppurtunity
pride
defense.
Four monsters
bleed through the pores
of a dapper´s mask:
repression
nationalism
patriotism
militarism.
I have no pulpit
no personal driver
no mahogany table
to rest my gut on.
No money, no success
no consciousness.
No power, no control
no more clothes;
stolen from me at gunpoint.
The pleasure spots on my flesh
numbered and registered
for quicker manipulation,
others consume champagne
while I drink table wine
and pretend.
Panic drips from windows, the scent
of black and white talking pictures,
torture victims and their genitals
scrubbed with black colored pencil
hidden behind a bubbling white veil.
I am not alone in the streets
with my gas mask and dry heaves
as long as the mob runs
in the same direction.
But as long as the chassis
are heard in the distance
we are all on our own.
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