Il ya déjà war
comme dans un déjà-vu
pendant un petit-déjeuné,
breakfast as fast as you can,
a can of Red Bull can
give you wings
by chewing red and blue pills
instead of swallowing
the wrong one
is the right
breakaway from matrix,
a firebreak exit
(as to break away from metrics,
a lot of meters away the Lotus-Eaters),
cyanide juice with ice is the price, not always nice,
or a capsule with that molecule and a pinch of dextrose
for a rosy future, rose,
the Breakfast of Champions
- stick to the Thousand-Years’ schedule!
and build and destroy Germania’s cupule or copule!
Only Death Can Dance and God Forgives
[Tanzt tanzt sonst seid ihr verloren]
: Dance dance otherwise you are
lost in translation.
The world is an enduring war theatre
of “This Is A Mens’s World” a spectre.
When cast into such a set a woman
sees in everything a bad omen,
everywhere watchmen, flagmen, badmen, bowmen,
and she doesn’t lack acumen,
says everyday amen,
offers cyclamen for the dead of that regimen.
She also performed a sad Joy Division
for those in mission for possession,
regressus ad uterum, an amniotic regression,
at the core a fission, fantasy of fusion, a fixation
by those hardcore men, at the pitstop, a strong explosion,
for those hardhearted women, a booby trap, a loud repulsion
by the next pitfall a bully pit bull,
what a pity, at large in the world theatre.
The world is a reiteration of the same token gestures,
makeup routine, kiss and make up,
afterparty’s aftereffect, be a pin up
afterword for the afterworld, don’t cockup,
red lips at war, red lips at work
in the red light district, a pork,
a non-fungible token, in the blockchain a fork,
work token, work as a hooker,
make it up, make you up as make-believer,
be a hunting dog, a golden retriever,
take action, take a make-work as an occupation
of your land forever, don’t be a griever,
“here we are, stuck by this river”,
may you be an overachiever,
not an archer, better of those chansons de geste a scriever,
- all professions occurring at large in the world theatre.
Applying red lipstick is a gesture token for austerity
and premonition of war,
prepare munitions, radar and sonar
- that is in the fashion world a verity.
A mascara can be only more or less dramatic
or waterproof, a semiautomatic
cartridge, a refill in the fridge,
but no bulletproof, war takes you down like a drawbridge,
venatic and lunatic like hunters, all became fanatic,
in the old customs they were diplomatic,
nowadays, it’s all problematic.
A mascara is before all a mask,
to remove and make it up again, ask:
“Maybe it’s Maybelline New York?”
No, it’s Yves Saint Laurent Paris,
the patron saint with his own patrol,
Patronen für Alle, all-saints, all-right
and “all is solid melts into the air”,
- of war the atmosphere, take repair
and take care at night
or wait for a rescuer Grail knight
on an armchair,
“a mascara pencil and faux cils are mighter than a sword”,
flirts Indiana Jones’s assistant taken on board,
cosmetic world against every warlord,
not bat an eyelid,
Lieder for the leader might not be your chord,
not too bad,
end war before dinner,
Almighty Dollar Lord!
Don’t let the mascara smudge,
history will be your judge.