Oh Lord! Oh Lord!
The masses, the masses
the masses rise at the mid of night.
A once-empty pit begins to writhe,
A growth of flesh and sweat.
The clocks drag, for the unadled mind.
This place of torturous joy.
The individuals act as one,
Without a master, they think the same.
Closer and closer they cram,
as their number grow,
an endless inward flow.
The lights flicker and music blares.
One drink at a time, upright corpses
the patrons shift.
As the sun does rise
these husks do flee.
They live among you and me,
but these creatures, humans, cannot be.
(4-19-25, review of a club in Barcelona)
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 11:31 PM UTC
Broken Bottles
I’m a man, I should be good at this.
It’s supposedly our specialty.
What else do we do?
I’ve crammed and crushed,
All I’ve felt,
bottling it forever
Each passing day, a new crack appears.
Years have passed, with these building cracks.
What was once a vessel, water-tight and whole,
now is covered in web-like scars,
leaking, porous, and nearly broken.
Am I then not a man?
Am I still a boy?
If I were a stronger man,
would the bottles never shatter?
Or does a better man fix his breaks with plaster?
I fear I’ll never learn.
(04-27-25, Munich)
Apr 2
Apr 2, 2026 at 11:27 PM UTC