II
we atomic children and our instruction to do whathever we want. Our conduction, our time, revenge; and it never dies what awaits and with the flow of aeons even death can die. We are conscious of our wasted state; we and our atomic cults of snalysis and disintegration, robots' weapons and Kiev's Punkinder. We were grown up, born already in nuclear paranoid: memories of thirteen and feasible names of atomicgeneration kind of pop groups. Wisewords. We are beyond beaten and blissful. You yourself can see the decadence of sinfulness, the growth of innocence and irresponsibility, modification of the reproductive instinct, bent to bisexuality, to the hermaphroditic, and childish faith in progress, and fear of catastrophe but not so much after all. no it's neither fault nor merit, but something like a blitz of e.t. tendencies in the humanlifeflow. There is more and over. Much learnt from life; star wisdom, it's already testamentary wisdom.
III
We could hear hear them out there, sitting around on the sidewalks, on the hill of the park or trying to break into those homes safe and insane or blazing buildings at night. We could not sleep, in tremendous sympathy and we slept not till we became the old maid fucking the fast ones against the wall of the chemist. And the neighbourhood would close its eyes if, not even teenagers yet, we prayed our own ways: licking each others' skin or kissing one's own knees or locking ourselves in the darkness of the closet. Firstborn to find beasties on the floor, firstborn honouring energy. Silence had to be explored, almost good at it. Glances passing a/cross closed blinds, we were and are sexyzombies. Loves for taboos, and ever different boundaries, smiling, raging; all good at maths after all, with an already mendacious music dominion. And somebody would come out one afternoon wishing to become pure.
IV
Poems you write to be kissed.
Great Tibetan sound like in a tape; and obviously just an illusion in your eyes, Allen, our twothousand. Sunny youth towards lunar wrinkle. With you in the opium den, with Einstein on the crematory ghat. Could you imagine what we now are? eccentric recorders longing for the hands of strangers in a desolate land. Desolate land but there's much life in the universe, different life, different forms of life and we, always passing ourselves off as one of them. And we had convinced them: hypnotisers, ode to hypnosis, hello i love you dance, no fun ma babe no fun weekends.
Good American citizens become surrealist pistoleros especially at work and in family: happy birthday Andy Wharol and atomic bomb on Hiroshima, some years later in Nag Hammadi, gnostic gospels were found and now gnostikpunk is in full swing!
V
machinegun dadapunk buddhism.
The night of the dance you cannot keep living like this and down on the asphalt. we felt it all the misery, we cheered it, we felt the war, we had visited a cleared out squat. We would have only liked to smoke weed and listen to jazz and be amazed but the: jihad, is inevitable.
Youth in camouflage suit, time for assassins, in the iron age, in a fight, in this fucking hell, for heaven. It's a holy war. It's a holiwar metropolis of deluded loves of the West yearning of bodies for heaven, for heaven. Inside of us wars and epics connected.
Seen too much urban voodoo not to be poets, hanging about in the rubbish, telling jokes about philosophy teachers.
el hombre invisible, in the interzone, street for doses observing your own feet. We find ourselves looking around for holes, rounds and holes, with disjointed chapters and freaky alien creatures with which playing our sexuality. I shot the sheriff and it's well known that in the monasteries friars shag. We spread weird cults. We want. All. we. Deserve.
With that mix with that mixture of biblical prophetism and streetculture we move away, moving close, decisive.
VI
sun shines beauty.
Talking dadaism and beatnik walks, and white chocolate every Friday; and if on Saturday at lunch somebody asked the reason for talking fast the answer was to speak more, and some mother spoke good answer.
Trips or written stuff, in summertime; stuck sights of Wien Miller in Danish showers poor in Budapest and paranoid in Prague barricade sex and Polish cats.
We believe in the magic of summer songs about fifteen girlies, disarming free subversive beauty of dance. Unknown pleasures. maldolorianWaves. Juvenile techno seaside sweat, the revolution will be psychedelic-sexual or it won't be. Invisible and sexy and creating situations and about the burglar alarm only the sound is good; the body in odd positions, Brazilian bracelet 'round the wrist and stone for the neck.
In deposit of carcasses, pills exchanges, pink filters, ultrasounds along steep walks. The january phone call on how we felt about the end of civilisation, the demand of some hashish (prasad) in Bologna for the train trip back.
The night of apocalypse in the toilet counterfeiting our father's signature; tossic buddhist pirates, in dadante's hell. We'll drink chocolate milk, writing workshop, urging women and untidybeds, dirty ashtrays, almost. Cult disaster movies, pirou(l)ette well as the only daily obsession, furniture of new falling buildings. Please compare yourself to the photographs on the wall; swearing is inevitable in war, but after the first killing the following are easier.
A report on tg3 about summer crisis of couples: goths in everlasting funeral of present, insult in every language, as in a script sweating forehead eyes of too much light talking fast and not accepting criticism, hooks on the skin, Leopardian moment, detourned Leopardi, cosmic optimism, even artificial. Especially at the funerals we could only aesthetically justify the world. An underrated psychedelic Fellini disturbed by a violent gang with shaved buddhist heads. A little more effort!
Stop with the boast of the follower sneer our talks of ethnic massacre with ourselves. Skinknowledge of the totalitarian machine. There's no physiotherapy nor psychotherapy bearing in shopping cue tension blot und boten. We, more gorgeous than a Kandiskij: thunder perfect mind, heavymetal thunder.
VII
long haired blond girl with violin on the stage, the hand of the bassist on her head, the sweat of the revolution we'll have this summer. If you leave the remote in our hands it's because you like us; and hellish bedlam and Chopin and spider on the ceiling. Mediahype on the dangers of the eclipse. Realism laughs at the end of the world, surrealism experiments it by laughing. You won't come out of here if we don't sing blues first, banlieue marabouts! Technodervish! Nobody will come out of here alive; a kick in the ass they'll put you away for vagrancy.
If you believe in love tonight, guitar with swastika and sickle and hammer on, and soniclife/peaceecstatic, right to gothicfetish sex for the Indian masses, escaping from men of nerve EdwigeFenec in love with Mao dirty bolscevik. We obstruct the wayby laying on the ground, shoving dances lacking tenemental grace. That old fells like yesterday feels like a century kind of feeling, time broken into a timing of songs and tv palimpsests, bourgeois contradictions it the rhythm of bongos. What's that animal with the psychedelic flesh?
Like clandestines along the seafront, colourful smokes on the tracks, the tunnel a perfect cabaretvoltaire while total war infuriates outside. Like is a constant danger of calf cramp. Caretakers of the experiential collapse, Schwitters (un)voluntary among domestic totems, stillrainingstilldreaming in loop cough. Truth in Hollywood paranoids. Total syntony, happy orgasm, stop for a while, sit down:
presents for life, jewels for a new millennium, doomgenerationd videodirectors, having women everywhere and children anywhere, nails in the abck like history of the ideas, planetary pushing, militant cartography, perfection hunger zaum (bees take drugs, bats enjoy peyote, liking our lips). Sensitive if non making sense, edging word as favourite: keep your eyes and ears wide open it's a minimalist programme.
What of you, Leonore baby?
Uncompromising love books writer, of(f)-real, Labuan pearl, puss at the purplerain mirror. Telling you we would fuck on the wall with our camp lips; the hand on the breast straight away sitting on the steps with syringes. Feedback guitars on the violence of love and the right soundtrack for phonecalls, and on backseats of a car switched on radio. Children waving our flight. We'll come looking for you, backpacked, to see you and talk to you and have a cup of tea.
VIII
Brilliant bright and the symbol of infinite.
Years ago already asking ourselves what Ermetes Trismeghisto wanted from us, blowing tobacco away from the face of Scorsese's Christ; the city looks impossible, absurd like smelling spit on the skin, like a/crossing wounded galaxies, new glances to conquer with ring-around-a-rosy-like dismays.
A girl is asking a cat to come out of under a A112, a slice of chinese cake with good and long life omens, mongolian eyes of a child who'll be listening to melodic italianpop songs; everything is bend everything bents, to the rise, you stupid the river is big, kills more than the plague the fear of the plague. A little girl lacing her shoes marks the beginning of another flood, waterfalls down from the mountains and water flowing in public places. Then fire.
This fear of us is poetic, fear is evil poetry, evil spirits; the gay spirit writes at the light of the tv, dry throat and drinking paranoids. The one who fears doesn't know what's he's missing, he's not nomad among radio channels. We swing because we feel the winds.
The river flows wrinkly, and bloody karma worry not to kill ants and buddhist zen rubbish in the books, more wrinkly flows the future of eternal parking and cops' advice, reading the firmament.
Poets always live in jail, they write on ass paper. They die from ass cancers (after continuous electroshocks, at least some fifty), and in extermination camps: such as Desnos, expert like Parsifal in birds' singing. Please burn me up to ashes. Disgust.
The body: poets' prison in orgiasticparties to be treated with whiplashes!
Here's the empire at the end of its decadence: the siren like in Tangeri (summer 1961 vulgar era), tantric sex between maodadaist left handed red guards and hoyl madness monks, zigzag nectar dances, taste as self-defence, square riots for the moving of Lenin's remains, urban guerrilla for the moving of Tzara's remains, scat plays in the madhouse, coiti among Moscow punx of good books and islamic lesbians, sadhu dancing claifornina psychedelic hardcore, GNOSIS TO METALKIDS!, filters made out of wallet sized calendars with saints on, shaman women pushers s/m dominate Neapolitan urchins in New York.
Always burnt taste in the mouth.
They only write sagas.
And you, what do you do on saturdays in this city?
IX
We know, it's only rock'n roll,
but we like it.
Refusing to accept the relativity of sorrow is a crime, inventing hungry wolves for our fairy tales.
Saturday night, i'm the dreamer! We - the beat - only keep the rhythm for little dirty secrets, sticking to your flesh, kisses examined real viciously, creating humongous shapes, colossi, obsessively on watch over the cities; walls, barricades in the square on the bourgeoisie's behalf.
Seduction's tusks tearin' the comatose body apart; we are dancing on teh corpses, sins mutations, we'll be winning the dancing competition, we are not fake blacks, and we do feel the music.
You, are going out of time, and this solo is no good for our ears, the lyrics don't work; but it's not the drummer's fault, he's sitting playing, with no need to pose for anything but his skill.
The wicked magnetism sighing from your cruel wanking and wanking before nightmaring is a well-known tune to you.
We come down tibetan mountains, with machine-guns, to the seizing of western lands (back with a dark skin), ready for the guerrilla: schizoanalysis and stealth: we come destroy run away.
You now only see a dot in the distance, straining your eyes.
Our foundations.
X
She sits legs crossed, the bride.
Under the eyes of soldiers, and she sets herself on fire, sitting in the front row, enjoying the show of the end of you all, and of the world - raper for misunderstanding and mistaken prospective, (the King's armies, insane, see themselves again in snuffmovies).
Alice is a punkrocker. We are at the drums. To learn more absurd catches reciting them in the dark. She says i'm burning my body because the body is the only thing that can burn. All dummies those piles of corpses, it's only a film; and by dint of repeating it you convinced us.
Baader. Oberdada: urbanist preaching in the zoo of Berlin. They shot wild sprites, Zurich in flames, London calling far away cities, mud doesn't wave up, manifest submission, Pan's flutes, drumsinthenight, pianos on the barricades. You can dance to a rock'n roll station!
The mongolian threat on Astrahan, squeezed between Persia and Russia; flower mullahs, of sudden migrations (the cat yawns in the arms of Jack knowing that nothing has to be done), where can you lie your head? In verses of pillow covers, on epileptic wagons, wearing hospital gowns, on the tunnel of love. We had warned you even in 1925 e.v.: we are the insurgence of the spirit, humiliated by your toils, revenge is ineluctable, we must strangle you with black strings.
We enter the city, we do some psychogeography, dicksucking, factories in the armageddon fog.
We fuck you on the floor.
Just like Artaud's letter to the Dalai Lama fucks you.
Just like the twenty year old girl in love for the cry in honour to the last of the suicide rockers would have fucked you.
Fucking is with the tv going on about violet riots, cataclysms, car accidents, ectoplasmatic, holocaustic matters. Family arguments, sighs, shots, silences; atrocities exhibition, forgiveness of sins.
Here they come the soldiers of love! Just like the letter to the clairvoyants fucks you.
It's your horrovacui to face (clearly, you don't understand our language. As colonised we use the dominant language our own way).
Now, baby, you can have sex with dogs, and light up that cigarette, the judgement has been done, the blueprince is coming michineguns three nurses, the canteen's crucifix and takes you away, now dancing to the rhythm of the voices. We won't bear without committing homicides, that someone will come and tell you that you take yourselves too seriously. We'll avenge the sad reading of Kafka's metamorphoses! We come out of the bathroom surrounded by flies, mommy? Swing your hips to the continuous bass of the russian letters. Nothing else but red dawns. Laugh, you laughers!how brash some will say. We are dancing in the street, like in an acid musical, a Fifties sabbath, ( she was dancing so beautiful that a guy went to her and asked some trip for him too). The horde wants the age of gold.
Wellempty. Wellempty sandokan who doesn't toast to the unit of production, wellempty we writing the night mistaking the noise of the fridge for the cricket's singing. For a future as eco terrorists.
And this time not even the last summer storm manages to spread us, and still in the city dawn you can feel the virus awaken by the verb pravda truth. And the radio plays transmentalecoterrorism
And it's distraction, as destruction some necessary, there are some splendid ones: unfair atomistic pogodance, dada witchcraft and apokatastasis.
The kingdom has come, our.
Safe from evil and good, you children, love one another!
XI
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