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Devoted horde, I can’t afford
Jules
Of no rules,
mere seed of mutiny
I’d like to see the birds or at least hear them
After waking early or late, real ones or a digital fake,
When they were all over my bedroom their absence was not noted,
And yet hummingbirds had their drinking platforms in my heart garden
Garden of another, erased my presence, gained garden of honest work, lost plants of sycophants,
Although trash keeps smelling my devious path, always one pace behind and two moves ahead,
Those quiet limbs seem not to Devise the proper thread,
This head hurts as any other fucker,
The difference is my pussyish character
The yellish fumes coming out a chimney which I don’t clean
Cause I’m a pig style unclean procrastinator
A motherfucker living in a social institution called daddy’s town
Where no freedom is whenever wherever to be found
Not even that of trying to gain his life unperceived and anonymously,
In an unverified attempt to regain some autonomy or alter taxonomy.
Fuck me in the morning fuck me pumps, show me death and decay!
Explain how Success leads to health and control over one’s destiny,
Explain that’s this solitude, Jules
Of no rules, mere seed of mutiny
Will inevitably lead to deep unavoidable, deep shit.
Bake me, cook me, show me how to bend to fortify back muscles,
Tire me with tons of stress,
Don’t give me time to guess,
If there is a reason to be,
Or not, because that’s an old question,
And we are all long past that inglorious point
The point is a ton of money,
The rule of measure,
Master of sex appeal, nucleus of any deal.
The substance informing human will
Sadly although I may love all things that money can buy,
My indolence and fear of failure has lead me to this point,
The Capetown of bad luck,
The burial of Oedipus,
The fall of Clytemnestra
Error of Cassandra, broken sword of Alexander,
Mad persecuted, unsettled portuguese salamander,
A thing that difficulty walk, and cannot wander,
Much less act quickly or react in real time.
So, unable to get anything, not even a dime.
Closed business, anachronism of a lost time.
Unfaithful to women, refusal of fatherhood,
Beater of mother, spankler of wives
Eater of puppies, peeler of cats, hot killer of innocent,
The case of bad content
Should be buried in some ordinary basement,
Covered with low quality cement in life,
So one day that bad scent would led to the uncovering,
And revive this story erected in glory, so that,
For the sake of children and public mental health,
All his alimonies kept secret so such ordinary life and ludicrous failure,
Cannot influence any more losers that wouldn’t work or contribute,
To the hail Mary blues
Sacred oeuvre of mankind, the horde devoted to afford
Long live Kapita, kampari to gin, a saké after an anime
Versus the power of clips, get energy from red bull,
Leave rest to those who died,
Performance of chondrite is nanite based tech,
But not the unconquerable shore of my sobriety
Sadness
Madness
Ungratefulness
Futility made obscenity.
Heart breaking, if you believe in such romantic nonsense
As the spirit of time praises and keeping yet cultivating ‘emotional intelligence’
“Cognoscente Ferrari” practicality denies,
Picturesque dark tainted crimson smell of defeat,
Is every single praise or joy,
Every adoration,
Every smile regarding the little big things,
What really matters in this Blink of an existence we lead, is kept as Undina and Undine
Painful is the realization,
Transparent clarity of acting contra natura
Against my true good nature,
Defiling all axioms and philosophical principles of my interiority,
Occulting light and kindness,
As a lost enterprise of not done and death.
Cause money is the name of the game of do or die
The beauty innocence and kindness of children,
Stimulating talk,
Vertigo of intimate touch, content of embrace,
Dwarfing sights of mother earth,
Sacred places of human belief,
Intense calm of areas devoted to grief,
Never ceasing rhythm of music,
Joyful unbalanced balance of dance,
Tantalizing views of substance induced states.
All that makes us human, even that
Thing called work that I hardly labour to avoid
All and more and Mucha more,
Are the hidden lines of the lore erected as surreal folklore,
Beauty and me or should it be harmony and I,
Why?
Aren’t you gonna regret it oh harmony,
Never having been capable of habiting me?
Wagner style shield-maidens chants echoes roaring
Over
Apocalyptic plumbiferous thunderbolt crossed ceilings,
Little gremlins wearing SM cyan outfits over crimson Tattooed butts sit over complex drums speeding the world
The lyrics are in a beautiful incomprehensible language
As we take our step by step deconstruction of thee,
It will only remain the void availability of your vacuity.
Is that refrain forgotten in vain?
P.S.
(Mystery of Iniquity, dear Lauryn Hill...you came to my remembrance, Hail! Thank you, sincerely yours)
