at the end of my days.

Razor sharp I cut
The bull from my life
Too blunt your knife
To slay this dreamer

We might be dogs astray
No running line will hold us
So rather kick and kill me
I’ll be butchered all the same

No words are spoken
But the world is broken

‘Cause I want something
Something all wrong done
A life instead of mere living
Folding crumbling withering oh hell
What difference when working the way

The crown of my work
Is what I shall gain
At the end of my days

Daylight awake to a puppet world
No strings attach to this body of mine
Folding crumbling withering oh well
The punished pushed along the line
All my actions, all my moves
A life all mine to lose

The crown of my work
A life all mine to lose
A life all mine
Is what I choose
At the end of my days

the Saint hides many Satans.

(«No! this face is only a mask, a wicked ornament,
illuminated by an exquisite grimace,
Look and see, atrociously contorted,
The real head, and the sincere face
Turned back under the shadow of the face which lies»
Charles Baudelaire)

He is profanity in sanctity’s guise
An alias assumed I do realize
In their eyes, his cause –
when enticing and cunning in impact
is still a criminal and evil act

So look for him vainly,
He, the incarnation of magical nature
He turns unrecognizable even to the experienced eye

You obsessively pursue him
Failing to see, hat was why he came to be
one who annihilates with such impunity

He appears your friend, but
the Saint hides many Satans
He’s contemptuous, you know
of your Godgiven stupidities
He calls you in question with
affected modesty and create
of you an object of derision

You think him to be pariah
whom company does exclude
But in the midst of all frenzy
He is – feasting in a transitory mood

Passion is a strict lord
He is also its humble FUCKIN’ slave
When bereft of common ways,
He strides before you on water
He makes clowns of kings,
charm the guests, rides the ball
Is the master of disguise

Prince of the thousandfold face
the charming jester’s smile
which invites reason to demise
and imaginations rise
Inscrutable yes, venting his spleen
Somewhere night and day between
Is the master of disguise


Συνέχεια

not knowing how to express myself without using hidden words.

Science – The new aristocracy
Progress – The world is on the march
Why shouldn’t it turn too?
It’s the vision of numbers.
We are moving towards the Spirit.
Certainly deserted: It’s the voice of the oracle, what I say.
Understand, and not knowing how to express myself without using hidden words.
I prefer to remain silent
[original excerpt from Arthur Rimbaud’s Bad Blood]
Science! The new nobility! Progress. The world progresses!
Why shouldn’t it turn as well?
It’s the vision of numbers. We advance towards the Spirit.
It’s quite certain: it’s oracular, what I say.
I know, and unaware how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather be mute