Front

Front

Front

immaculate facades
     will crumble

the ludicrous pageant
   of history
      falters,
grotesque and absolute

there is nowhere
   further
      to go.

relieved
   to live here
in the sluggish flux
     of the quotidian

with a poor memory

happy
  to give up
applying for visas
for forgotten countries

hoping
  only to continue
   to barrack for the losers

to live here where I live
   where it’s always matinee,
      where love matters

where everyone knows
    Freud’s big mistake –
considering adult love
      in terms
        of  babies
          and small children.

only a poet,
  pissing for pleasure,
I strive to appear
   as normal as possible
      in the face of
         gigantic
surrealist tendencies –

give the shibboleths
    a drubbing

drub the placebo
   while you’re at it
(make mine real)

blow torch
    the crème brûlée !

to suffer only
   the usual fears

being
    suddenly stricken
       with a fatal disease
or doomed
       by hypocrisy

knowing
   everyone dies
      of something
(it’s natural)


dying of boredom
  in the queue
    at the consulate

dying of laughter
  in any
    foreign clime

watching
   my friends
form
  a drunken
  committee of two

they’re
  ganging up against it
    like Chinese troops
         on speed

maddened
   by moral superiority.

arranging
   yet another
  little altruistic project

just like
   a dreamer
with a separate destiny


I flaunt the rules
   and never anticipate
     capture.

between
  social behaviour
    and authentic feeling
  irony
      becomes
the modus vivendi

then, possibly,
   a pain in the spine
throbbing in the head
unpredictable blood
     from the womb

the pesky irruptions
          of time