No one sleeps tonight.
is whispering sorrow among the old trees
as the empty rooms you left with your carnage.
Nothing but darkness left.
Burn ‘em to ashes, then burn the ashes.
And I drown my fears to the bottom.
My throat tastes like salt, blood and anger.
The sky is raining charcos, ríos, mares de dolor.
We see your real face through the wall. It has a name.
You, the beast on prime time and out of control.
They’re running away from your claws, from your shadow flying in circles.
Your greed sees everything, it wants everything.
We had to look everywhere. More empty rooms.
We figured out curses and spells, preludes and afterwords.
Now we invoke the damned to the feast,
for this is our time to eat, and yours to be eaten.
The vultures of rage still devour their livers as usual.
Sometimes hurricanes of nightmares still knock them over.
You can feel so much pain in their silent voices.
Shredded memories, violent repetitions of the finest human arts.
Torture is not a word anymore. I wish I had a word for it.
I’m on my own on this wave of anguish.
Our songs became stained with your hatred.
It fills every page, It fills everything.
We’ve got blind after the fire. Now it’s time to listen to them.
Burn ‘em to ashes, then burn the ashes.
Es el taco full of hate
in the heart of America.
It’s made of guts and deep fried execration,
a dish best served en caliente y directo en tu cara.
It goes with so much rage and beans topped
with shredded dreams, relieving spits with very sore cream.
Fat and greasy, like you, you eat it and it eats you,
american dream, taste of depravity.
Taco de odio, Cowboy Mouse, va con todo
to wash your ignorance away.
Taco de odio, with chopped raw reality,
you’d better watch out, our tortillas are soft.
El taco trae ya mucha salsa, mi amigou,
y un día de tanta se le va a romper.
Ah vastness of cameras, bringer of breaking news,
super-high play of highlights, solitary hell,
Pocket rockets broadcasted, plastic meat dolls alive and puking,
clean-sparkled toilet from whom the miserable eats!
In you the actors can talk and sing and my soul flees from them:
The system has failed, the show must go down.
There’s a path designed for pedestrians
I see your role heading that way.
On every wall I see the smoke screen
and your noise will strike down upon me with great vengeance and furious close-ups.
It’s you, with your 60” plasma waist
where I end and reality starts getting hyper.
Ah the things I have to see to waste my days away
and the blue pill to swallow my evenings!
Thus I see dead couples texting in the park
ignoring each other, dating their own cellphones.
TRANSfiGURATion from salquebre emilie on Vimeo.
The darkness wraps you in its critical error.
Abstracted blue mourner, frozen that way
kidnapped by the same old windmill trojan worms
that sneaked into my privacy chambers.
Internetless, my friend
alone in the loneliness of this lonely hour of the dead
but filled with basically crap,
idle witness of my ruined life.
Your last words just came up so fast.
The songs I always skip, the selfies in the bathroom mirror
and all the files I didn’t back up
will be lost in time like tears in rain,
so that a blue and pale screen of death
will remind me how big is my emptiness.
Oh magnificent and sterile and confusing master
everything lives in you and what is not is to be created
all the answers, all the questions, the advertisements in between
and me with no device to update how I feel.
Soul of a demon, orange pop on sale, white X-mas propaganda,
you stink like the world you think you own.
My rough slave’s anger is rising because of you
and makes the blood leap from the depth of my keyboard.
I was never alone. Every time I went there
I found at least one new friend request. To keep that pace
I used your filter on my profile picture, I made public my concern.
But the hour of forgiveness falls, and I hate you.
Soul of a demon, rotten apple, black and awful diet coke.
Oh your meaningless crap! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the undesired pop-ups in your face! Oh your voice chopped and robotic!
Soul of a demon, I will no longer speak about you.
The machines, the boundless absurd, my shifting rage!
An inspiring kick in the ribs, the waking hour
and the drowsiness follows, and the infinite don’t – give- a- damn.
The prophecies started to burn so long ago.
The elves of time sewed their lips
since humans set the house on fire.
Wasn’t Chronos laughing on the lintel?
It was the house made of memories
of old combustible beams.
Empty eye sockets through the looking screen
vanity of vanities, what you see is what it is.
For what matters is appereances, the right price
the right color, the right shape, the right spot
in the supermarket.