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