képek, betűk

Every day with torn-out hearts,
we step somewhere, the directions crash barriers,
gasping inside domes blown from metallic vapour,
hiding more and more from one another
the shame of pain, the fear of failure ---
today they’ll use me again, tomorrow I will be a machine, And
a servant, serving staff, fucked by loans,
driving for wages, a replaceable cripple,
a month-to-month twitching, bleeding wound,
a pitiful Whatever masked with roles,
the animal of minute-long joys bought with the money given,
for some it’s breeding, for some it’s owning property,
for some the greatest hope is numbness,
or their offspring’s better fate: education, technology,
faith, luck, and a long line of self-deceptions,
tongues and limbs sticking out from under the press of existence,
ghost-like figures trampling over one another,
like the sort I am, hacked apart,
with a torn-to-shreds consciousness, spinning
in the whirlpools of various lie-therapy experiments,
heading towards death in total meaninglessness,
it might be better to see these clearly: perhaps this is the only
anaesthetic for a few moments.