is death’s eroticism, the passionate violence
a palliative for tortured guinea-pigs,
let sex resolve to silence, words
and the popular skull beneath the skin.
we are all thin men, a new century of hell,
where weak words only express the depressive
fascination, but their god is not
as beautiful as the old Death,
She, the maiden, the pale mistress,
and we are not Dadaists -
don’t want to take any other victims with us
just sew mouths shut with sowish metal,
my piggy dumbness.
we are alone in this life as death shall be –
terminal this obsession is antique
though all words are Death’s words
in my possible absence -
you need not live for words to mean to the reader
in their living presence, pretention pretending this
protention, and i feed on the dead like everybody else
rotting in their bliss, drowning in a corpse’s piss.
this decade’s face defaces a century
that already degraded humanity.
the savage god’s sudden death prevails again,
but words will never reconcile to death or living,
getting dead or making children.