5. end of the earth

Lo, terrorists galore as commanders-in-chief







Simian assassins armed to the fangs

Roam the devastations already visited

By their cruel precursors.



Every war further kills the earth.



That's the insolvable question: How

Can a murderous monkey

Direct the vanguard of the most

Destructive army the earth has ever

Misconcieved?



And no mobs flaring up in riotous

Revolution to rid us of every hideous monkey

And his murderous gang?



It must be that

The Collective Psyche is already giving up

As it prepares itself to passively endure

The end of the earth...?

4. sunday

Sunday



Here are again the stupid bloated maggots

The fucking bourgeois going to mass

Ach, the repugnant processionary worms

In an orgy of a stagnant mess

All ears and farts then for the words spewed

By a fucking preacher - ignorant creep

Praising all wars as the bible said

For they shall bring tangible benefits

And the farts will then continue flowing





In Merkin all is for sale - wars are invented

And sold cheap, and what's reaped is weighed

Then, accordingly to what was gained, asssessed good enough

Or just another failure - though never fear

A new war is on the offing, my faithful

Farting maggots, forsooth




Peoples of the bumpf

Maggots of the three rolls of bumpf

The coran, the bible, that thing the jews read

Bourgeois to the masses

Masses of messes

Orgies of worms

All their ludicrous preposterous

Laughable hope lies in lies

Lies in lies

Lilies for the corpses

Turds on your heads

Maggots, begone




I am a man, not a worshipper

I shit on all their gods

I shit on all gods




Brave must the man be

Who braves the unknown, you creeping

Orgiastic worms on whom I tread

Obliquely, dismissingly, smiling




Who cares for wars - who cares for

The maggots' orgies

Who cares for the paradises promised

To those that kill the most

Who cares for idols bloodthirsty

Who cares for the bloodthirsty thugs

That wage the planned wars




Don't fucking offer me the work of killing

For the corrupt and the rotten

For the bourgeois who Sundays go

To mass, for the idols of the three

Ragged books - pure bumpf to wipe one's

Asshole - whose shit was written long ago

By bloodthirsty thugs, ignorant creeps

Maggots processionary, unpalatable

Despicable

suite

* * *


proudly, a malingerer



yes, sir
while others toil and kill
I flirt
with the pretty
nurse.




* * *



quietly fading




a wisp
borne by the
zephyr
from the mirror
to the ether
as a
speck of dust
spilled
from an empty
vessel
that now reposes
upside down.




* * *




there they are – the thinkers




the eggs or the icebergs as self-referential creators
brooding until rupture and upburst,
until capsizing and splitting,
kneeling the keenest once the idea,
spunk spilled on a mirror,
gels.





* * *





now sag the flaps



of rough tender scary flesh,
flaps that ought to be
ears,
noses,
dewlaps,
eyelids.




* * *



how benightedly horny,



how ravenous the heartache,
and foolproof the enduring traits...


and then
how they flew – all those squandered
years
of thoughtless youth.



* * *




ah on the news the flashy tinkerers





notching another one for “peace,”
drunken hulks of sobriety
slowly putrefying,
each flap of flesh breaking loose, or rather cashiered
into a netherworld
where their only
line on the long shirred paper
hissingly burns.



jilted monsters now,
their sweltering spunk
spilled on cue
into the notches stung into the frayed fabric
they themselves helped unravel.


sinewy thugs quaking in filth then
to whom now someone sings dainty eulogies;
quite handy with the awl,
and the shiv,
and the screwdriver, they used to be,
every jolly Jack a ripper.


damned
into eternity, a stink that shall
float about the quavering dry parchments
of the smellers of carrion, the history
buffs, so-called.







* * *