No More Teenage Poets
“Il suffit que je sois bien malheureuse pour avoir droit a votre bienveillance”
-The Death of Marat, Davide
Thats not what I meant at all
I mean, it was a fever dream and rotting slowly
fat kitsch post weimar gristle
Few arrows through
Long arrowheads flew, as the roof comes off
Too far the eye had reached, Nervous, twitching, green, sickly, coughs
Cold grip relying on the grace of upperclassmen
How long is night?
Where does the fog go when it leaves?
Words of love are empty demands
Nous sommes tous des Juifs allemands
Boy with machine, give me fear and enjoyment
I want you to know that I’m not here
Could you stab me while I bathe?
Resistance is futile
Ending necessarily beautiful, tactile
“That’s when I reach for my revolver”
Clown on the road, dynamite black sea empty sky as I follow her
Drifting through horrors
I appear as mule, segue into man
I look through magazines about kitchen appliances
Can two commodities love each other?
Please stop writing about culture
dreams of bourgeois living
As it was
In the sunshine and the fog
Living, breathing like a wolf
Slowly bleeding like a dog
Bad teenage poets
Bad new things
As the good old ones
Ride off more quickly
Into the blue unknown
Cancel your debts
Live like a Manson
As the soviets keep on
Keep on marching in
Stop singing as you walk along
Stop living like an alternative
To what, some faux bedroom pop
Teenage commodity screaming dream scene
Leave me in the corner
Remaining in the shower
To get clean
Did they tell you?
About Sade or Kant?
Did they kill you while blushing?
Did they take you to the bank?
Digitally erotic in a near collapsing world
Too much, paid to dance
Living in the background of someone else’s nightmarish dopamine trance
Bleeding out in a back alley
In the blooming, twisting valley
As the light
Shines through the window pane
The sun slowly stumbles through the sky, again and again
A day ahead
A world behind