I . The Double Face

‘I’ve seen the best minds of this generation’ turned into lovely ciphers, vacuums and holes of ideology, walking lock step into a prison of text, made perfectly redundant, able to repeat truism, memes like viperous phantoms, in the death rattle of the social network

11. The Hipster’s lament

The clever idiots are on the bannister
They glare at you with their savant eyes
But they never really touch you

The wordsmiths are deep in their furnace
Working their subterfuge, their banana revolution
But they never really know what they say

Oh how they burn in their cool intellect
Oh how they drift away from their bodies like angry sleepers
They think that they can win you with mere words

And sometimes they succeed for awhile
Until the next clever idiot comes a long
To dress you in a new lexicon

No, you were just another naked man under the hammer
When floods came, when the harsh times arrived
Your tenured halls could not immunize you to rats and plagues

You thought you were particularly clever Mr. Jones
But you never learned to really dance or laugh,
With all the metaphors you threw at people

You never really heard the ancient language
Though you mastered the revolutionary lingo
You never shuddered in the embrace of the deep

How pride caused you to show all your feathers
But how drab they became in the bright light
How you ran to the skirts of mother, banished from your kingdom

Another hipster under the wheel
Raging against the father in the sky
With nothing in your womb

III. The Soft Gulag

Comrade X you have been a prisoner
Of the minds jargon, of ‘ideological possession’
A prisoner of winning, a prisoner of losing
A prisoner of nihilism, prisoner of the eternal reward

IV. Unnamed

I had declared the world an illusion and a joke, until you walked naked into the room. I had lit out for far places, until you brought me back into your smoldering mountain. I wore dark robes, fed entrails to scorpions, until you brought me some milk and honey. I wanted only to be a corpse, until you put mercury in my blood.

Compressed scraps of angel melody, stories, essays, rants against reductionism, commands from the deep.