the russian

the guy behind the counter is russian, unless he is lying, but he is tall and pale, looks like one, talks a bunch of shit. obviously the prick is a moron with his fucked up glasses and snow white skin. the dickhead is polite enough to avoid a drive-by, but he just won't shut his arse from which shit keeps pouring as if he in an instant went from a year of constipation to sudden diarrhea seeing an oriental for the second time in his life. aroused or repulsed? hopefully neither, but being a nincompoopeatingcocksucker his prescription of the oriental is complete:

"you asians all look so young it's disgusting"

MN oriental

whitey is tall and weird, misplaced between two worlds.
he studies korean, for what?    why not?
anything is better than pure snow.

the baldness of this country makes corn seem more yellow
and the craving for rice expensive and ridiculous.

this is a house of starvation, exploitation and subtle violence,
its universe hungry for pie and nobody questions its lack of colour.

there is a need for more amerasians and miscegenation
to sell over the counter, in this state

oriental with oriental equals authentic oriental
but oriental with white equals adoptee or bride.

Thy Name Is Religion

Evil has a name.

Deep, deep in the bosom
Of a burning cauldron
Laughs the lizard.

Ultra Catholic sunblock
Can’t save you from abduction,
Child trafficking by pope mobile.

Rage has flooded the nation.
Men in ties calmly sit
In fascist condescension,

While doctors, in freezers,
Babies keep.

Penguins can be evil.
Human theft part of prayer.
Money exchanging hands.

Franco isn’t dead.
The stolen generation lives.

Unbelievable

Whenever I hear
예수님 믿으세요

I think: Fuck Off!
Verbal selfdefense justified

When I hear the question
교회 다니세요?

I want to reply: In Your Arse
You Fookin’ Cow!

When the word repent
Scratches my ear

I put on my shitkickers
And kick some shit

Death to Barthes

the young die hard and violently
to the song of the moose.

time is not what separates us
intellect is. smoke the last thing
seen before the moon opens her eye.

the mending of the chasm is left
to doctors who understand nothing
of the rising tide of misprision.

a heart stops beating because the author dies,
the sound of sirens faded into oblivion.

Lorelei doesn’t dance anymore,
the echo of waves against her breast
is the last trace of an obsolete sun.

Charlton Heston is alone again

the streets are silent this afternoon,
almost deserted,
the city’s bosom laid bare.

today, madness is on hold,
men at work not rushing
into inevitable decay.

the day is red like a face
talking too much shit
the night before.

the hour is hung over,
a nation deep asleep
behind motel doors.

lazily the apes will rise
one by one, wondering where
the hero has gone.

The Shindorim Crowd

a mixed bag of nuts
phalanxes of sheep
waiting for the cowboys
to bring 'm home alive

I don't believe in Djins and Daemons

i wish i were a better poet
then i could write a golden sonnet,
prevent poor Romeo from dying.

but could i blame this withered flower
on empty air, when golden boughs
drop manna everywhere?

i can't keep count of all the notes aborted.

where is the palm that holds the tree,
the black feathered bird that speaks?
why are they silent, those ghostly walls?
there is no other ggod but me.

Blue Eyes

in this morning light bright,
the weather cock is silent.

not an atom moves or rubs its back
against this sea of matter black
and velvet air

one pearl in cosmic ellipse.

i doubt that angels exist.
what colour would be their eyes

i wonder

could i catch a silver trout,
pretend that i am Hugo?

those pearls, they are her eyes
and i fear not death by water.