Aesthetic needs must be met.
Kitsch is an analog oasis
in the modern desert
of technology.
Modernity
is an outdated
imperative:
it begets
short lived creatures
that are quickly replaced
by other creatures.
Kitsch is the only
aesthetic preservation
of what’s human.
Relieved,
humanity submerges itself
in the formaldehyde
of Kitsch:
emotions float
and get preserved
in the same substance
that preserves de dead.
To observe something different
is a classic form of betrayal.
To draw the curtain of banality
to see death:
to watch the deaths
repeat themselves,
ornamented by the uncertainty
that mankind adores.
Uncertainty is preferable to evil,
medicine is preferable to poison.
But there’s only a semantic difference
when uncertainty is actually evil,
and medicine is actually poison.
Behind the curtain
the fear of death
is just a contract
for voluntary prison,
the most effective
betrayal of life.
There was a man
who thought
that thought
would put an end
to the suffering
of men.
So he was
the Anti-Christ,
the anti-God,
the anti-Man,
he was the anti-all
and for all those
who didn’t believe
he thought
of a bible.
A bible
for the atheist.
And with it
I cried of perfection,
I cried of beauty
and of thankfulness.
And the crying
was identical
to the crying of pain.
And the beautiful
was identical
to the horrible.
Passion leads
to chaos
and chaos leads
to suffering.
Wanting hurts.
But thinking
hurts as well.
Can I overcome
the exhaustion of
thinking by thinking
more thoughts?
During centuries
of shadows
has the god of misery
tortured mankind.
However
austerity and chastity
are values in which
nobody believes anymore.
For the all mightiest
of gods
rips mankind
its cheap clothing.
Clothes confectioned
by the poor,
that even the poorest
of the poor
despise.
Who can deny
the existence
of this god
when the greatest
suffering
is not being able
to consume?
One does not
have to be rich
to believe
in him:
the god
of the existencial
emptiness
which no-one
escapes.
Theories
are the weapons
of the lonely man.
Swords
of soft blades
that do not dare
to penetrate
the flesh.
Literal theories.
Theories build walls
that lock in loneliness.
They build walls.
They destroy walls.
Theories
that break
theories.
The damaged brains
get damaged
by the intoxicating
substance
of music.
Don’t explain it.
Just vibrate.
What was so damaged
that needs head banging
to repair it?
It will travel
through your veins
at the speed
of death.
The metallic string
of a guitar
will inject it.
The beating
of drums
will pump it.
We’re brothers
tonight,
we’re lovers.
Our bodies
jump together,
swim together
ride together
the warm wave
of the crowd.
I drink your
youthful sweat.
I smell your
worshipping breath
as we worship together,
die together.
Feel the damage
it’s been
done to us.
Our cracked
genetic code
produces
malfunctioning
neurons.
Only music,
that power vitamin,
that catalyser,
can fix us.
Music,
the intoxicating
substance
of life.
The Spring
decorates the garden
with tender leaves.
The same way white clouds
stand out from grey clouds.
What stands out
is what we always want.
It’s not worth it
to state otherwise.
Spring is cruel
to the body.
Only the grass
grows where it’s not wanted.
The grass grows proudly
in the confines of cement.
It wants to shout
that the light exists also
in the dark.
It inhabits it
at this time of the year.
The grass grows
where you step on:
that way it’s easier
to follow you.
With so much light
hiding it’s not necessary.
The night it’s not night.
Money hangs
on the walls.
You shouldn’t have died
if you wanted it.
That you have
earned it
dollar to dollar,
that’s what you
would have said.
Now it hangs
like a cascade
of soft colours.
A mirrored
hologram
that does not reflect
one’s own image.
Money
turns into
objects:
only that way
it comes
to life.
It plays
to retract
itself
on a die.
Fragile
like the dry leaves
on the street.
It plays
on the corner
where the wind
accumulate
the leaves.
Accumulates
the money
that hangs.
It’s not enough
to bring you back.
I live
in the red city.
Flesh red.
Blood red.
A river
runs through
the city.
A river of red,
like the flag
of death.
They say
it wasn’t
like that
before.
They say
it turned red
when they threw
the bodies
into the water.
They had to
cut them first
because they had
stones inside
the veins.
The blood
of the dead
stagnates
like a swamp
in which
lonely people
throw stones.
Your red lips
turned pale
before the flag
of death.
You had seen it
before,
but not up close.
Up close
it whispers
its secret.
At the gates
of death
I was crying
from beauty.
I was crying
from perfection.
When the cold wind
hits m face,
I can justify
the tears.
The flowers
are offered
to the dead.
They dissipate
the smell
but they rot
easily.
The skin rots
easily.
It screams
from despair
at the threat
of time.
It screams
from perfection.
A Brief Life 