"Age of Innocence, Age of Behavior"

AGE OF BEHAVIOR (1984)

We’ve been waiting so long… first there was “Hair”, “Easy Rider”, British Tribal Music, Stonehenge Free Festivals
thru 1984, collective anarchy, extraterrestrial trippers on Planet X joining the band, The Druids, laughing with serene, complete worlds, a universe of sounds… real poems were written there, but we kept no copies. Books of the road were completed, but never published, and photographs were taken, but not of the people and places… voids of light appeared instead, and our Wiccan girlfriends went looking for ghosts. We’ve been waiting so long… first there was Blake, Rimbaud, Ginsberg, Daniel Johnston… we’ve kept memories on cassettes, we were not afraid of our feelings. We were not cornered. Manipulated. Castrated. Neglected. Punished. Vomited on asylum walls. It was an analog world of freedom, now turned digital, worthless… we can’t remember what really came first. Vague memories of Eve and the Tree, and of Sin, imposed by the Black Gowns marching…

transitory period (2012)

We’re entering the Age of Innocence again
full circle, back from the Age of Behavior (it’ll happen soon, mark my words – there are solitary prophets already screening out
the 2012 apocalypse, when the nurses can’t hear… "poles will evolve and we'll finally find Atlantis in Antarctica")
no longer caged, exposed to camera eyes, sold
reproduced, marketed, pigeonholed, published
sewn shut, priced, licensed, registered, logged in,
checking our e-mail, updating our relationship status,
playing our favorite games… what will we do?
naked, not serving, served, labeled, measured, thrown against
a muesli wall, spitting out our useless teeth, old men
on diet cocktails, without a homepage, without a nick,
without connection, not sending poems
becoming hermits again, learning to be a true writer
not blog user, community portal’s favorite pet “poet”
online magazine hero… now sitting alone
in a freezing December apartment, no water, no light, no heating,
no way to cook meals, no way to make coffee…
only matches work – but there are no more books to burn
except one and I’d never burn “The Prophet”
nowhere to buy. nowhere to go.
Our supermarket churches have been already
plundered, if not, they're being right now...
and you won't leave them without leaving traces
of your priceless, humanitarian blood.
We're Hunters again, blind, obese,
limbless, shaking... trouble is, we can't hunt
unless it's for cheap, imported products
away from corporations of thought, of manner,
realms of fake virus speech, assault on Spirit, battery on Body
demented one-night prophets, disease of friendless laptops:
into them hunchback figures type common doggerel, like me
repeating after lucky men, trapped in one-inch cells
of armadillo skin, away on a Buddhist peak
online forever, forever miserable fucks, logging into
simple, electronic lives, playing someone we’ll never be
saving our sick kid idyll, finding android wives,
our only excess hard porn pay sites...
forgetting what’s Human, leaning onto
your mechanical crutches - blinking red/green lights,
full of mp3’s you’ll never listen to,
e-books you’ll never read – too much data, sensory overload,
megabits of useless music, literature, art… pictures deformed,
pixel pandemonium – cell phone photos deconstructed
look, you’re ten pounds thinner on screen, look, you have no flaws
of identity anymore… perfect model…
I’d really like to meet you without disappointment,
complications and affection, obscene scents of sweat,
body fluids... just send me more pictures - I can write
poems from them, it's gonna be beautiful...
we're never Poets – mutilated carnivores in hairshirts
instead, worst illusionists ever, bit-nick clowns,
masked marauders on Google altars, drinking from
corporate sources of doubtful knowledge,
not reading real books anymore
stuck deep in a pilgrimage of safe entertainment
where’s dancing on ropes, walking on ice,
breathing in fumes of the city… what will you do
when all computers go silent? What will you do
when electricity fails. What will you print out,
not even confusion, repeat, confusion
can be your epitaph – your real scrapbooks are empty…
that is, if you've got any left... me, I got this one - it's now
sacred... you can’t remember handwriting, you can't play
acoustic guitar - all you ever had was a $13000 Gibson,
just to hang it on your post-modern wall...
can't write songs - the music software doesn't work...
you haven't written a real chord on paper
in ages - you relied on these cool flawless beats...
anonymous e-mails wrote all your lyrics...
sad, but I'm bored with illusion. Lady Madonna, feed me raw
reality, gray post-socialistic high-rise blocks
embrace my poor mentality
push me into dealing words again
push me into sheer songwriting, cut to the bone
primal magic of bonfire chant
I could never sell crack, Slovenian women or stolen cars.
I’m not that kind of guy
Thank God I'm safe in Poland with Roky's "Openers",
my old ragged Fender acoustic, my scrapbooks and my Mind –
anyway, fuck that, too late for nice guys.
All machines are silent. Cities, now darkened arenas of unbelievable
Roman monstrosity. Weapons disarmed. Governments dismembered.
If we were a true society of Peace, this would mean
a peaceful revolution... a paramechanical world at last...
But in this culture of death - no longer restrained,
no more blinds of control - it’s gonna be a fucking slaughter.
No music, no light, no poetry. TV reality's over.
Online reality's over. Nobody's printing out papers.
Deafening silence of Truth.
Fall of Men exposed.
And this time, it's real. We've done it ourselves.
It's not prophetic mumbo-jumbo
repeat - it's not prophetic
We've had five years in 1972, I say thank you, Ziggy, for giving us the chance

AGE OF INNOCENCE (1983)

Murderers reign the family roads, martyrs crowd the clouds, digital children circle, aimless, in ruins of silicone faith. No cellophane, iPods, laptops. Global village makes room for the Jesus of Joy, not the Serious Savior. Dolciono, Bokonon, Bernardone and Eon, innocent, walking together through burning valleys of corpses – flesh, once again, turned to smoke, liberated above the sunset. Everything’s comic up here, this earth is finally free from your thought, your passion for form and meaning, divisions, revisions, anal sex culture. “Celebrities” are gone, fortunes are common, cities tremble like grass on the wind… Eloi rise again.
New music is being composed, golden books are written.
No connection to Mammon.