In that primordial armpit jungle of the mind stalks a hopeless nostalgic bigotry:
choking on poisoned colonial gin and counterfeit Freudian contraband, drinking The
Queen’s Tears from the empty cup of rock rebellion.
reduced to pop art, present, tense, from my heaving electro chest
your dead eyes gaze, into a sea of objectified breasts.
In Bristol or Bangkok
from Glastonbury to Fuji Rock, in malls and MackyDs –
dorm-rooms and dance-floors bounce to the beat of repackaged revolution.
Che, God of Mass-a-Cola
between mediate and murder
of the perversion of subversion there is no line to walk.
Hey! Major unit shifter,
how do you like immortality now?
Back against some frat-house wall, beside the soft-porn princes and the goddesses of fashion
– do you leer in quiet contempt, your eyes as yellow with the years
as their salon-tousled hair?
In Havana when the power fails ( just the lights this time, too many new TVs in the city, they say)
spare a thought for the anorexic supermodel on the box – bitter tongues conspire against the air-brushed simulacra of her sex
– puffed/fluffed and scooped/addressed/undressed and redressed on the silky pages of
Into a whirlwind of consuming fire, ideals turn to “I desire”.
With open mind
and hemorrhaging soul, I reach deeper…
…into the Pandora paradox,
And her plethora of death treasures,
desperate times she told me once
(and such are these)
call for desperate pleasures.
But a locked chest is a locked heart.
And leaning back into this attic world —
— just dust, dust! —
10 000 boxes smashed to smithers —
a million windows lit with blue, I gaze into the crystal void
and find — not my — face reflected, you!