GUITAR HERO
(for V.H.)
From nowhere to here is a long journey, he says. From nowhere to here, he says with his mouth full of grapes. Look out, he is hiding a knife behind his eyes. Whispering in an ancient language that was forgotten a long time ago and remembered suddenly on a rainy day in London while sitting in the bus 436 to Peckham next to the dead body of a black woman whose baby still joyfully sucks at her breasts smiling like a shaman in the dark. So what you are up to, he asks. So what you are up to. I’m running after words, I say. Filthy words, who have been chewed over and over and over again in billion trillion mouths, leaving nothing than splinters of betrayal and the taste of contributed blood behind. How does it come that I hear you than. How does it come. Even silence needs a word. And where do you go when you volatilize in the electric canyons, the high voltage abysses of your amplified dreams when Nirwana seems only one step away and madness is the last church to flee to. THE CLOUD IS HERE BUT IT IS NOT RAINING IT IS NOT RAINING IT IS NOT RAINING. So this is the beat. Check one two check one two check one two. You are the ghost in the machine now. Haunting the future purchased on a loan. The howling of your strings/black/darkwhite. No colour paintings in the ruins of a second hand life towards a glorious dead. Wecome. Enjoy your stay. These endless strings coming out of your body one two three highway to hell to hell to hell to the inevitable LOVE to the unavoidable Shakespearean massacre when everybody applauds cheerfully with skinless hands throwing their tooth at each other on a ferry boat in Leningrad dancing to the holy sound of splintering bones in the dream of an old man watching over the skeleton of his wife who was killed when a bowling ball crashed her skull that was thrown by Stalin in the attempt to cross the atlantic ocean for making love with a redheaded whore in Chicago swallowing the condom after so that there is no evidence left for historians who will write nevertheless about you and me because otherwise they burn in the daylight or become sunflowers in the garden of the white house watered with the piss of cultured apaches. So bring it on, he says. Bring it on, he says and turns his back to me and turns again and again and goes on turning like a derwish desperate of the limits of his own body and of the very concept of the body itself. Covered with notes and blood. Laughing at me like a devil on holidays. YOU FUCKING CUNT I LOVE YOU. Don’t make me say it again or I will steal your face. And the ship with 80 dead/And with 50 Refugees/Will fire on the town.
