Living inside the heartbeat of the earth, I hunt for the requiem spaces of silence that hide me from those snarling dogs ever howling at the sultry sirens of the nighttime. Falling fellows, we land altogether abruptly in the sinkholes of the economy. We are stripped of our hypnotic collectables, our sacred encounters with the third eye of the sun.
Give the moon her last breath as she turns down the horizon and sleeps through the day, a curled smile flit across her face. Death slumps around on all fours and seems to drink black coffee and smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, his rusty voice fumbles over the lines of prophecy written with burning coals in the sand.
An artist in the shackles of the machine, I wonder if the apathy can change me into a walking number. Speak loud and strong before the house of card crumbles down on you too, the face of a myth staring back at you and laughing.
Yet thrust on we must, hold the lamplights higher and raise a glass to those we’ve lost through the war of articulation. Ignite the furnace within me once more. Lift up the voices of the collective electric body and soon our wet lips can drink in the creative again.
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