6.5 Divided Personalities

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the vestibule of a new angelically created world. Here the battered wooden toys of dead children never spoil. They turn up new and shiny on the supermarket shelf, ready to go they are also bought by your own children. Isn't it fantastic? Ladies and gentlemen, turn on your TVs, we have beautiful colors for you. Have fun, enjoy and consume. This new world wants you to be happy. Isn't it fantastic? Here dead children's puppies never die. We dismember their bodies and make bath dolls for your children to have fun. Isn't it fantastic? Conquer death and sorrow too, with images and purchases made exclusively for you. Come on, isn't it fantastic?

My nails scream as they dig in passionately the indifference of the television crowd of late night shows. Screenings of hate, love, sex, love, death and cannibalistic dominance I swim in dark waters, stinking sea, sewage, from drains of sated minds. Rot begets habit and habit begets rot, I stink but I'm different, I'm different I hope. I hope because I'm nothing, among the fucking thoughts of precarious households I'm afraid, but I don't hesitate, I hesitate but I don't flinch I tremble, but I continue. I'm dead but I'll rise I will rise again Septic dynamite at the foundations of every physical prison. I will rise again.

In the spectacle "guard" - in art active, bars and TV a defense against regrets. Thought flows without problems, apathy the way that overcomes everything. You hear music - songs like this it's rubbish - like all rubbish. I will see gray sad pictures on a color TV I will get angry, sad and maybe cry. I will experience life through a representation of stitched images which are not mine, mine depreciated at some point in the year I will go out to a bar with "cool" music with friends and after discussing using a "revolutionary" phraseology for spoiling me in this wrongly written world I will gulp the vodka from my thousand-filled glass so that I can temporarily erase images, dust, that mark my oblivion and awaken my self-criticism You will go to the cinema, to the theater afterwards, to the dance club, to a party to get drunk. With a sight you exorcise slogans, regrets and images that have haunted you You hear music - songs like this it's rubbish - like all rubbish. I will be in the streets at concerts against state repression, party against cops and murderous fascists. In cinematic "dance parties" against oppression, I will fill up again my plastic glass countless times with alcohol. I'll get drunk, I'll go blind, I'll make a head, and with progress I will decompose the images of murdered children, dead immigrants, starving souls, abused homosexuals and raped women. With spectacle and amusement I shall succeed in burying my reactionary head, corpse. I tremble every time I discover that the enemy is not only others, but also my slender self. He who commands me to wash away with music, consumption and representations all kinds of shit that pollutes our lives in a society that doesn't belong to him.

I was born in the rotten armchairs of a city of glass. Seed from the hordes of self-made consumers Do you still love me? When time screamed bitterly announcing the birth of Nothing, I let out my first eternal cry, an ode to sadness. Do you still love me? I live, I feel, I write resumes, I am dying to publish my unfinished and demon-fostered unholy autobiography. Do you still love me? I write to express my instinct or to eat my flesh roasted, kindling the pages of some cheap collection of mine? Do you still love me? I sell my silver soul for my famous body cheap words and chilling verses of a sad literary wretch. do you still love me I am afraid of the rage that my pen transmits in my musty but pure soul. My pure soul? Do you still love me?

Rights you knew now do not exist there is a dead life and a blind obedience with exploitation and stupid fear your stupid leaders are fucking your soul. It is not democracy, it is not freedom it's just a bastardocracy. Censorship and dirty traps everywhere they keep checking you even when you spit they lie to you about love and peace and they put half a kilo of strychnine in your food. How long will we tolerate being spat at? and will we let them erase our future? They keep beating us, throwing us in prisons but no matter what they do, they won't shut us up. When! What freedom are we talking about? What democracy are we talking about? We are only talking about one bastardocracy.

Madness is the way my blue eye analyzes the void, gazing at the color the fairies leave, when the moon howls savagely into the soul of the night the lust for blood to drain, licking the knife with a lithe tongue Death slow, curse of a witch of last summer daughter of night sad that dripped sweat and moisture of an hour of darkness I can stand it, I said, to the elves that haunted the entrance to my airy lobotomy feed on my thoughts, suck my mind with thirst. I can stand it, I said again... A cold monkey with claws promising eternal pain lusted after my flesh as demons, elves, fairies and witches kissed my mouth goodbye. Formless form of immaterial matter, forged out of nothingness raped my erratic breath inhalation turned to ice, exhalation to ash, the monkey's claws chords of merciless screams. And then I became a child again... I redeemed myself, I don't know how I died, waking up in a dream or did i daydream about my death?