the future seekers -
worth the girth and birth of the 20th century:
king crimson - in the court of the crimson king,
the moody blues - nights in white satin,
omega - gyöngyhajú lány,

at least the past is a certainty -
the future: a rampant imagining -
there's no horror to wake up from -
only a something worth the regret
and a powering overlord of bluffing -
how will i ever explain to my cat: Verrine -

this, this this before me?

impatient one -
impatient come night -
impatient with an affiliation associated
with the paradox of falling alseep
all too easily... come the shortest
hour of the vampiric umbrella of noon...

20th century haphazards...
break-away crowd of angry teens
came in mid-20s come mid 1990s...
now? past? what past?
and the future? is that really
something worth looking forward
to?
really?

one at least could
appreciate having the horror
in one's past...
slouching israelites oogling the nazi
war machine...
taking shots using bent rifles...
at least a horror in the past
allowed a gravitation toward an impasse,
a coupled impetus tomorrow...
how does it feel...
being the NEXT generation...
hearing stories about
hallucinogenic drugs...
but also being the grandchildren
of the sort of people who took them:
but being unable to take the same drugs
themselves?!

sounds fun then!
here's to waiting for the next
rubber-band span-it moment
giggling come the 2nd tier of
the holocaust!
zukunftdenken!
well: if the horror is not prior to...
and the horror does not involve me...
then a horror awaits!

is that really oh too oh too hard to believe?
why are so many people plagued
by a naive sentiment of
the current simulation utopia?!
governing the 20th century's taste in music?
sure... even i could play the justifying role:
bazooka...

considering the worth of music...
pedant or no pedant...
i'll not stretch it beyond
into classical...
no... it's not worth justifying
or keeping: weimar pop bollocking...
bashing ones testicles
against a ping-poing racket...
to testify to have experienced
the simulation of ouch echo...

these days a concept of an echo
is worth much more than
that strict obligation to the freudian ego...

at least the 20th century art allowed
the sort of creativity born from
ashes... 21st creativity is waiting for the ashes...
then can come something resembling
h'art...
i'd still find the emotional impetus
in my bowels, my intestines,
than i might find in the tabernacle of
my iron maiden heart.