PREGNANT CITY, SMILING This is the sound of nothing kinder This is the sound of pumping veins Kites never come back Trees always burn down This is the point in which thought starts No one will dance here Nobody drinks here This ain’t the pub of pragmatism Everyone holds hands Rich kids will form bands Let’s glue our lips so we won’t speak… So it’s easier to sleep

DOWN THERE In the corner of the basement Stands a chair that you once sat in With your beads and cup of spirits Muttering in this dingy haven And the ever dangling light bulb Swings above you like a pendulum And it’s full of dust and cobwebs But it still gives light to you down there And the bubble man is talking ‘Cause you’re telling crazy stories Still the neighbors never saw you Dancing or telling your lies Now the hurricane is coming (It’s a lighthouse in the fog) But the only thing faith’s left you Is a tombstone with your name Down there Today’s a special morning You’ve got on your brand new suit And you’ve gone to pay a visit To a friend down the boulevard And he’s shaking red with anger ‘Cause you’ve sabotaged his image And he’ll send you to his brother To the devil you will go down there Your life is now in shambles And you’ve cut off your own head And you did not listen to me When I did not say a thing I’m just fine with a used candle Sleeping underneath a closed sign And I’m dreaming like a baby But you’ll probably still see me down there In the corner of the basement Stands a chair that you once sat in With your beads and cup of spirits Muttering in this dingy haven And the ever dangling light bulb Swings above you like a pendulum Still I’m dreaming like a baby And you’ll probably see me down there

CUNT Hey! Let’s share a drink But, let’s not bother saying a word ‘Cause in the morning everything’s forgotten And we each have our own agenda And about the only thing that makes sense now Is to stay detached Amnesia’s just a shot away So, why bother? And the best thing to hold on to Is to not expect a thing from anybody How many friends does one have at once? Or is it always the same one? And like a schoolgirl back in grade school Playing many games of tease for fun Are those dreadlocks in your hair? Are they merely snowflakes? You can’t seem to keep your story straight You use the same excuses Taking about two years to find the courage To run and hide It’s always good to be suspicious of someone Who shows interest in you The brandy sits And the incense burns

HOW THE APPRENTICE’S CONSCIOUSNESS KILLED HIM he pricked his thumb to test the point. the drop of blood meant go on. he’s off to weave with eyes wide open. to beckon with the slightest hint. i’m offering my skull for practice, and he rides in on a slug. i tell him where to shove the needle. have him choose the color thread. purple is for unicorns. red is for a candy cane. yellow’s for a night with Lisa. white is for a New Tomorrow,…so he threw that one away. and though i feel the tug between my ears, i can still hear the coughing cat. and all i wanted was a kiss from Nero, and he bragged of shaking Pilate’s hand. he thought he knew it all like the back of his hand, but there’s no room in here for the living. how they’d laugh at the sight of him. he’d be a walking “Pin the Tail on the Donkey” with those banners pinned to his face. they laughed at his obsessions and at his most embarrassing thoughts (i never knew this side of mother). so i finished him off with his very own dreams. and all the while, my eyes were shut.

THIRD TIME FROM THE CELLULOID Beware! For the flapping of the mosquito’s wings Prevents you from clear thought Consciousness may not come easy But, it is he who knows Yes, it is he who knows Do not stand in its shadows Do not stand beneath the tree That self same tree Yes, the one that the Buddha hides in And stares down upon you with envy He’s as clear as crystal now And he can be seen through The earth shivers at this revelation But, will you stand as still as the tree he hid in? Will you stand so still? Do you recognize the shrine? Four turtles climb upon the rocks The candles flash an Indian temple Upon the wall Upon the wall A ziggurat of knowledge A lie that has taken the form of the previous line For common sense is esoteric And it is known That all monks are ghosts The bees mate in my ear And the wasp steals me some honey A hallucination into a greater world Reveals that which is feared And in the jungle of posterity Nobody’s a winner Because nobody is playing Yet, the merchants still give advice Free of charge or not They’re still written down in books And are gazed upon But, it never goes beyond that No, it never goes beyond that A knock on the door The feedback is looped Four fingers crawl in through the crack Through the crack What is this message? That which we seek The gods are in the brothel Because they know… Because they know And will you take this with some salt? Or will you horde it all in cup fulls? Will you take it? Will you take it That you are merely but a grain of salt? A single flaw in a concerto A blemish on a painting A sign of life upon a blank stare A single grain of salt A single grain of salt

ZERO ZERO IN THE YELLOW-STAINED AMPHIBIOUS BOTTLE OF POACHED PERCEPTION, OR 9 O’CLOCK P.M. The round and round The round and round It was a long time, no It was a long time? No! But, over too soon But it all depends On which end of the gun you’re standing on Behind Oder? Behind Behind the feedbacklife Life as a bad habit A knife in the dark Your voice No depth, no substance ‘Tis merely objective An observation of the physical qualities of a sound wave Clearly, the essence of secondhand perception The byproduct of cause The essence of two-dimensionality Perception flawed A piece of paper torn in half Milk, sandpaper and snow All blended together in a great black pot In my ear And dubbed Mixed down with effects Did it have to be black? You had called me on this particular plane Apologies for Inconvenience Reception as null Revelation in the Null Null Of substance A moment im Klo Of mind A moment in infinity In the third, in the Next Two seconds later See you tomorrow Don’t want to miss you Lach kanosch Don’t know – to hear you Lach kanosch Sketchy sketchy Lachkanoschlachkanoschlachkanosch Lachkanoschlachkanoschlachkanosch

TZAK TZAK “Meet me at the station,” was what she said before everything in her life came crashing down upon her. She was a victim of ideas. She was a monument to herself, which in itself was created by bricks and stones held together by nothing else than more ideas. “Quickly now…” You’d miss the train. Stumble through those streets of Europe. Pick up matches along the way. Points of interest lead to sparks. Another good idea along the way. Shake hands with the corpse. Another good idea. Yes: an irregular pulse. Head weighs a ton. The chocolate-brown coat with the feathery trimming flutters in the distance. She’s a speckle up ahead. She’s a spot on the horizon. Catch her with binoculars. We know that there are bandits. And time will sabotage the future. The dartboard hangs upon your back. A bull’s eye in the dark. A good shot in the back. My best friend holds the darts. My favorite enemy holds the cards. “Hurry up, you’ll miss the train.” Stepping over curbs. Sidestepping over selfish minutes. Whisking by the addicts with the blue horse in the tunnel. Skipping stones and skipping rhymes. Up ahead: a flagpole in the ground. Say your farewells quickly, and then run. Go go go go go… The chocolate-brown coat flutters in the distance. Time has sabotaged the future. My best friend holds the darts, and my favorite enemy holds the cards.

BUZZ Here comes the modern man! You’re waking up to find yourself In the same exact place In places where you’ve never been With people that you’ve never seen It’s fine if you’re not up to speed It’s all about commodity This world we own’s of cottage cheese Or so it seems The scheme of universal love Conspiracy! Conspiracy! It’s all about the words we say And throwing out the cultural glitch Saying it with dollar signs And matching up economies The decentralization scheme “I want a piece!” The beauty of life’s differences Converging towards a great, black hole Coppers, fuckers, Christians, bums… Even cats all look the same So what’s the use of language now? Here’s a random word for you: KNIFE! This night will never turn to day As long as we have lies to say A cactus with no prickly thorns A pirate with no wooden leg C.c.’s making lemonade The children with the needle play The litter box is filling up With arms and legs of other men Here comes the modern man! You’re waking up to find yourself In the same hospital bed The window’s closed The curtain drawn The book is out there on the lawn The nurse comes in with eyes like yours A smile like yours The switchblade drawn GASHGASHGASHGASH!!!

CHE PECCATO Niente di speciale Qualcuno ha versato il mercurio in il mio tè Nel bar Parliamo molto nel bar La vecchia vedova ride Un angelo con un occhio Balla sul tavolo Lui guadagna i soldi E noi lo prendiamo Poi lo spariamo con arpioni Abbiamo avuto bisogno di soldi Parliamo sempre Sempre e spesso E sempre è spesso Non c’è oro qui per noi Qui i soldi è come la fornicazione Allora

LATERNE I want to be a hat I want to be a hat So I can walk around with you Wherever you go Where ever you go And when you’re not looking I’ll peek into your skull And see what you’re thinking I could be a building In a modern city Standing with the others But, they wouldn’t understand They wouldn’t understand The nurturing aspects of my intentions They’d bar their doors And board their windows But not me No, not me! I want to be a hole in the ground A big, black hole to swallow you up But, not just any hole One with a strong, iron lid Like a doorway to the sewers So I can take you in And astonish you With my amazing hospitality I will feed you And I will study you And I will feed you Until I earn your trust And then…

GOOD NIGHT A face in the sand brushed away by the hand Our memory, gone with the wind We know nothing, and never will We never choose to dig our own graves Take pleasure in sin before it’s too late For tomorrow it will be too late You will disappear like a fading smile And will be re-cast like the toss of the die CHORUS: We held on to the rail till our knuckles turned white And waited for morning to come Towards the horizon, we never looked back The last toast, the last dance Good night CHORUS The howl of the wind never leaves a trace We always choose to live as someone Companion to none, or a knife in the back Passively waiting for the right time to come Take pleasure in sin before it’s too late We know tomorrow will be too late All is in vain; your prayers mean nothing The last toast, the last dance This is good night CHORUS The last toast, the last dance Good night The last toast, the last dance Good night The last toast, the last dance This is good night

CONTRACT Well, we rode out the next day… Off to meet our destiny, like everyone else did. Like others will. Up the scoliosis hill. To shake hands with God. His body moved in a serpentine motion. He wore a green bow. He handed us green pens with which to sign our contract. Others would follow. Nobody would be left out. So this is capitalism. It begins with this contract. A love for accumulation. A trance and a drug. The Ferris wheel in our eyes would never stop. Not for you, nor for me. A hypnosis initiated at conception. Monopolized before birth. Green is the amniotic fluid. Green is the sea. The feathers, the room, and the penknife… Well, you get the picture.