And we are here, inert.
Waiting for nothingness that covers us, we create.
Inevitably we fall again under the same, identical holes,
We walk the same filthy streets,
We breathe the same muddy air,
The eye rests on the same spewed places ...
The impression that everything has changed,
Now it is invariably and certainly will
In future only be an unnecessary appearance...
The last of the things that I want, is to fill
My whole mind of shit ...
Yet it seems absolutely
Impossible, since it is always and everywhere
Horribly, exhaustively and
Invariably this shit, I say.
The only thing I have to do to survive,
Is to get the "smile of television"
Printed in the face ...
The face of a "career manager" in the daytime,
Then take off the mask foul night
To breathe my soul,
Give relief to my being.
It is a paradox ....
I always go in search of places neutral
But it's as if I should ask to speak to a blade of grass ...
Is how the world works, baby.