Room 173

October 21, 2016

The future starts today.

The future is fresh!

The future will be repeated,

broadcasted & distributed.

The future will be obsolete.

The future is overrated.

The future ain’t what it used to be.

The room of the future.

The future? Just a season.

The future is here and now.

Oh please, always talking about the future…

The future is a chest of broken mirrors,

a boot stomping a human face, again and again.

Room 172

October 17, 2016

– I don’t like either…

Room 171

October 15, 2016

a tragedy without theatre  
and so much theatre without tragedy:
when will this night, the world, pass away,
sang the man with a black hat, so far from here
the white city of the western lands
where the boat of the dead slides through drowsy caves
of mind, and seven souls like clockwork
insects fly, one inside the other, after
the other. Ashes of ideas
and names, dust of artifacts like those in cards
you played as a kid – land, lotus, djinn
a shadow is awake where the coffin stands.

Room 170

October 14, 2016

A lust for hand to hand fighting, a sense of carte blanche.
Room by room, it’s just like playing Halo, screams one behind,
isn’t it? Stabbing someone to death, smoking a fag.
Here we are, digital age, still using bayonets…
A fucking team of jokers: a way to remember
we are the good guys. Man, if I just put my hands on
one a’ them bastards… That prussian idea of maces,
morgensterns to finish off those floored by gas. Carbombs
at the market, at the temple, along the boulevard
at the food line, at a wedding, down in the alleys
rockets in swarms, people in garages with no water,
gray children extracted or weeping from the rubble.
Men in dark camo and cigarettes and sunglasses.
Snuffing an old woman and her stupid husband, what
was this moron trying to do? smooth as taking a pee.
Trails on the sky, a memory of the rose garden.
A pee on the dead woman, socks over hosiery,
not much blood on the sidewalk. Bags of state meth like salt
or rice. Some back home depressed or with a smack issue,
I know one who plays in a club just three hoods away.

Room 169

October 12, 2016

If grave Death comes, if she comes fancy and full
of crowns, laces, scepters, scythes, shoes, hoods, berets,
silk, zibellini, gold & pearls, with baskets,
jades and coppers, one eye closed and one open,
half old, half young, clothed and naked of all colors,
don’t turn away nor flee, don’t jump off windows
(windows! just distractions out there), don’t run through
a door, but ask what does she have to tell you.

If then Don Diego, Don Diego of the Night,
the black man, comes, with the Mammon Cat to guard
his back and Babau flying overhead, if Don
says he has Judas, Mohammed & Martin
Luther in a bag, say you have Saint Peter,
Saint Paul, John, Thomas & Francis on a shelf;
ask him if Judas has a beard red or black;
look him straight and say he still lacks De Molay.

Room 168

October 8, 2016

finally you are: born
from weak womb, all misery
like flower to short life doomed
far from good and from rest;
may the day of your birth die,
and the churn’d earth where you fell,
may that black ground die, too.
Will you ever consider
how much a very day is worth?
certainly not: know, now,
that death and your days are rings
of the same chain; remember,
the only wise man is
the one who lives all hours
like the one where the bell tolls –
this, is what the rumble said.

Room 167

October 8, 2016

like pushing yourself through
a tunnel of cobwebs & fleas
like resisting vomit


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