Pumpkin-shaped orange lying uneaten on the floor,
seventies songs that slip into an odd sullen, and father
nagging about his
son in law that never sits with him and have some
coffee talking about what’s going on in life as two or three cigarettes are burnt to
Maybe I’m the same criminal.
As the album says, “Who’s Next”, I think of
the flute, an imaginary stranger named Khamrilla who enjoys stale tequila,
and hostages crying out for a release
while those souls in the hexagram already got what
they didn’t want to get: being martyrs. Though it’s not about it,
and in some other places
some look-i’m-a-hipster kids dunked into
the pool of cryptic domination and the others say: “school sucks and then
you forget algebra”.
Monsieur, roll up my sleeves ‘cause I’d
love to hand-roll those tobaccos!
Thing we should beg for.
In order to save the generation from demolition we see the guards handing
out their guns
alternating between “lachrymator will show them” and offering
lethal candies, and the sawyers shrug off as they
react our guardians’ sweat into other weapons, and
the windy mouths
distracting us from wondering fuss: “you can’t do that,
you do this”
as we continue to
make the same fuss. Attacking with the same arrogance.
We pull the trigger.
Maybe we have our own.
And maybe we’re the same villains.
Oh, I thought it was you.
…The Light of Jehovah.
What do I know
I got my warm red blanket I got my favourite music I
got my cheeks kissed by my sweet niece I got things.
And brothers and sisters in the East
got the same blessing.
Either I just can’t laugh easily these days
or how senseless
the joke you cheer on is.
It will be funny no more as you take
those socks off.
But maybe I’m just the same kid.
I just can’t claim.
And today I got pissed.