Wind in the antennas. Silent, undefined, doubtful.
It carries more meaning than all possible media. It carries the primal content. It carries the core of progress. It carries culture. It carries conquests. It carries the dirty blood of conquerors, it carries innocence and whoredom. Being silence, it simultaneously disturbs it with the wavering of antennas, with the temptation of the sky, devouring every new sun, covering it with pallor. I struggle to catch breath. Wind in the antennas. Wind in the antennas... Carry our verses above the January sky. Carry silence, stagnation, resignation. Carry the shadow of mere defeat, a shadow that terrifies when seen from the Center. Harakiri of millions of ghosts, guts flooding the streets, guts flooding the roofs, guts flooding the sky, guts...
The shadow provokes you into uncontrolled acts – sudden death, spontaneous orgasms, unexpected screams of awakening, barely audible cuts with a razor, brutal rapes, leaps from bridges full of splendid lights, riding elevators without purpose, running straight under passing cars, slaughtering the whole fucking family, brushing against the shadow of risk with a sudden swerve into the opposite lane, shooting into the canal like into the very center of the periphery, drinking absinthe with two whores, vomiting on expensive carpet ornaments, shitting on costly antique armchairs, fucking a dog under the bridge, tearing the skin from your own face with a blissful smile, pissing on your father’s corpse, devouring your underage lover piece by piece and vomiting again on the carpets. Wind in the antennas tempts the ghosts obedient to it.
Ghosts love everything they fear. Ghosts have nothing. Wind in the antennas has seized everything that was ever important. Now Fear makes them free.
Within the bounds of fear and in the shackles of antenna wind – yet free. Though electric wind sometimes shakes the rotting flesh wrapped around spectral bones. Freedom then shakes the ulcerated brain. And cruelty finally pierces through the mask of whorish, unbearable docility. Greatness above all.
Somewhere far away, yellow-violet, pale flashes illuminate the sky. NEW YEAR on the peripheries rips open the entrails of the day. The vagabond laughed. He walked further west, returning to time.
The day whispers: Wake me at last, you fucking bastard, inject life into me, crush the tomb walls, declare war on the miserable conspirators, erase all traces, wake me at last you damned son of a bitch! Wake me FUCKING wake me, don’t answer calls, don’t move from bed, sleep so I can suspend myself in your holy whorish space, digest me, turn me inside out, smash all windows, break down all doors wake me you whore, wake me! Turn off alarms, smash cars, cut the POWER, steal all energy from the fucking vampires. Wake me or rot and I’ll rot with you.
Symphonies of mistakes respond with the steady beating of drums. Other instruments fall silent. Thus whispers the day...
The wild rhythm of drums shook the pulsing heart of the jungle, burst apart the wet air and made it tremble, moaning with pleasure. The sound of drums swelled, reaching incessantly toward orgiastic crescendo with admirable regularity. Soon the deep bass shook the foundations of the jungle and the greenery, until now seemingly eternal, began to collapse, withdrawing its moist tentacles, revealing the City.
through eons of devastation path after path the motionless sea keeps watch tribes of the night unite around the monumental bones of an ancient sea beast jazz of lanterns, rain of drums ancient paths turned into highways toward temples of gaslight and empty windows of sleeping estates
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