3 poems originally published at ZONE (Argentina) May 13 2008.

Bridges

the far-eastern bridge of oil in orange
god-like
flows into the western bridge of sanity
blue-spotted gentle
crossing madly
the delirious bridge of yesteryear's passions
flavours
ornaments
street specimens
delicate voices of amber
death-angels
frozen in benevolent ashes
praying over restless bridges of amaranth
echoes
filled w/ jumpers & trombone masters
dildoed whores panicked
of the frequently damaged
White Corners
where poetry's jazz and jazz's poetry
neitherway
and anyone chooses trumpets of fervor...
blow!
bridges are
what bridges see
& what can we make of 'em
with diamond-hands
and hair of gasoline
burning
fanatic circles of flat notes
perfect
have I just heard the Blue Kantata
orchestrated
or was it just a vacant point
in the sweet time-ravaged
Hollywoods of glory...
it's all so jimdandy
dear Gina of honour...
and now
we're hitting
La Paz

Debasement

Oh the sweet art of debasement:
to breathe the very same air
cockroaches inhale
& to sleep w/ their
decadence debris
under roaring
refrigerator's
heaven...

to lie under Eiffel Tower
& any parisian sidewalk I'll find
effective
to radiate
with Madame Bleu
and her boys of reddening twilights:
the pursuer of noir city magic...

to throw my guts into the coin-box
spiting out verses at random
faceless landscapes throwing moons and
sunrays
and everyrays
between
for her harvest moon pleasure
where words are but ornaments
for
penetrating spirits

to crystallize the draperies of nite
saxes
wailing dead dramatists hoaxes
post meridian...

or to hear once again
the marked young man's confessions
send-up

sending you up and sending me down
shade-toxic bluntness:
must learn the fine art of debasement
to become
angels
not meat&bone&gut bags
or madmen dancing w/ fireworks
straw-men
with eyes wild on
panic buttons...

to find an escape
from escaping...

Ghosts of the miners

we, the Solar System renegades
we, the underpaid dogs of shark's fin soup
we, the in-crowd connoisseurs of awareness
we, the undemanding notes on chimney tops
writing in smoke
and water only
for fire is too hot to witness
and smoke can resist them all...
we, who come on patchy wings
of hyenas
piranha sailors on dead feet
like sculptures...
living on air and cat food promises
in the morning
we, the holders of hollow fibre ghosts
we, the white Indian partisans
of rhythm...
we, the narcissistic haters of
nihilistic manners
ambassadors of well-mannered old-fashioned
word-riddlers
martini drinkers
book-swallowers, sword-shapers
albino deconstructors
we, the sunlight over Monte Alban
in a greener kind of blue
than
ever by human imagined...
ghosts of the miners on turntable
patios
black velvet verandas
the day watch of deadly compromises...
we, the syllabic punch bowls
empty taxis at 3am
we, the drinker inside

Boring Metropolis Radio Cabin

mummified reporter
he wrote down the more important thoughts
recorded them on lunar tape
tossed it at the consignment shop before midnight
selling my soul to the devil
for 10 cents, in a Berlin alley
abandoning the lonely herd
dancing towards the diner
in the rhythm of r'n'b:
they'll be sipping shakes there
eat burgers
stuffed with needles and they could write poems
on the other side of the camera
admiring American idols
in the post-art plasma of non-existence
teenage mimetic mannequins
Presley writes the songs
tuned in glissando of powerlessness
they sing protest songs
about kisses and chewing gum and Cadillacs
it is enough for stimulation
for the once so demanding
European old-timers
Bird and Pasolini fans
favorite topics for a joke
fortunately an immaculate city
it lasts in its age, it sheds new fashions
like ill-fitting gloves
rejects the trivial tissue
the American Rendez-Vous
does not put new ones
McDonald's, slowly demolishing the old
it extinguishes idyllic dreams
in a puddle full of cigs
in which he saw himself for the last time
buddha-vagabond, going to live
towards the magical old town
scenery where it does not reach
the eye of the filmmakers
writer's pen
freedom is freedom
and the choice is not in between
and although I know it's another illusion
that's even though my kids don't learn lines
in predictable school cubicles
and boring cabins
metropolis radio

Mean Machine (2000).

Take a look at the sky
You see a machine
Take a look back at the ground
You see a machine
Take a look into space
You see a machine
Then take a look at me
And every human being

Do you see a machine?

Take a look underground
At the coil and oil machines
Take a look at the sea
The machines have chosen him
They've chosen the right one
The mindless and the weak
They've chosen the bad one
Why have they chosen me?

I'm not worth your heaven
I'm an atheist
I'm not worth your sermons
You don't have to preach

I'm not going to worship you
Worship you
All over this universe
Machines machines machines

YOUR EXISTENCE IS REVOLT - Audio + Lyrics

I was born in a prison cell
No bigger than a Buddha smile
Picked my education well
Though my brain was wasted on the line
As I died to the world below
I was resurrected above
I started drifting with the silent seas
Stoned on the light of love

That's how it is, my friend
That's how it is
Your existence is revolt
Your revolt is peace

I was thrown to this vacant world
Like a bag of unused ideas
I got drawn on the chalkboard of time
Like a deadly disease
I had no friends on this side of the town
Like a ghetto, like a fallen leaf
Nobody told me where to go next
So I got bloody on my knees

That's how it is, my friend
That's how it is
Your existence is revolt
Your revolt is peace

Vacuum shadows veiled my eyes
Driftwood bones they blocked my soul
I got buried in the sands of life
It's an endless corridor
Where space collects and emits the views
And you are photographing void
With your camera sequenced echo
With your hippie acid dose

That's how it is, my friend
That's how it is
Your existence is revolt
Your revolt is peace

Międzynarodowy Transport Zmarłych (2008)

Człowiek jak mebel, szafka, krzesło
Nocny stolik
Jak żyrandol, karafka, zapałki
Jak pistolet
Widzę tylko białe, brudne prześcieradła
Białe, prominentne ich wachlarze
Okruchy zdarzeń, spóźnione twarze
Człowiek jak mebel tu
Za każdym pieprzonym razem
Z każdym prominentnym okazem
Zgodnie z zarzutem
Zgodnie z nakazem

Pędzi dalej czarna biała karawana
Już numery przydzielone, garnitury już kupione
Żeby szafka, krzesło, kredens, nocny stolik
Poszły wreszcie spać
Poszły wreszcie spać
Zgodnie z zasadą
Zgodnie z nakazem
Jako siostra cudowna snu każe

Samobójczych już nie trzeba konstruować maszyn
Społeczeństwo wystarczy, dość jest skuteczne
Człowiek jak mebel tu, czy nawet
Jak mebel, a w meblu powietrze
Widzę tylko długie, zimne, srebrne stoły
Skalpelem rysowane na szkle
Białe, prominentne ich wachlarze
Okruchy zdarzeń, spóźnione twarze
I nie chcę jechać, nie
Nie chcę jechać, nie
Tak, wiem, że wołają mnie
Tak, słyszę jak wołają mnie

Zgodnie z przeznaczeniem, gotowy do użytku
Ostatni żywy mknie
Mknie
Mknie
Mknie

Kiss the Sun

Dreams opening now
Draw me where I belong
Bow and kiss the sun
Swastikas' taken too long

Tibet kisses my feet
It needs no mortal king
Europeans never had access
To hidden avatar dreams

And if it's taking too long
Someone should call a priest
Before I kiss the sun, sincere
Make sure I'm incomplete