"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.

"Echo in the Mirror"

Steel mirrors in distorted sun
Arrhythmic applause in the haven
Faces drop & distantly liquefy
On my arms two corpulent ravens

Exodus into desert plains
Landscape calm & silent now
The notes are drifting really slowly
While you stare & ask me “How?”

I tell you why you should ask me “When?”
These are plains of mystery
Seven hundred people scan
In search of unexpected prodigy

"Polen Afrika (incl. Lorca One, Andalusia None)"

Slavery days are over
Anarchy in town
White face fat warden
Spreads the world around -

- a messy little world
Primal rhythm cell
Embryos on the go
Comets burn away
Words, words, words
Make a world, world, world
Make the factories stop
Go, Johnny, go

A little hilltop village
Crosses on her hills
Burning through the night
Go and do your will -

- in the days of old
Love was all the law
Synonyms in universes
Baked as the world
Clothes, clothes, clothes
Make the man, man, man
Lonely, lonely, lonely
Make the man forget

Windows in the night
Free electric orgasm
Keine businessman steht
Keine Yuppies ins Kreuzberg
Yeah...
Keine Yuppies hier
Kein Yuppie mehr
(Mehr Geld...)

Afrika Polen
Wake up!
Afrika Polen
Gar nicht
Afrika Polen
Steh the fuck auf
Für Zeit und Ewigkeit
Polen Afrika

Paint a white cross on your door
Destroy all glass and plastic
Close your eyes, forget the day
Receive the night fantastic -

- take the trip, might be your last
Enjoy it more and more
Kill the brain that killed your brain
Take my hand, let's go
Silver, silver silver
Makes the gold, gold, gold
Dig the goldmine deeper
Deeper dig the stone

No yuppies here
No yuppies
No more

Take U-1
Stralauer Tor rebuilt
Take U-1
Take all the guilt
City's changed overnight
Take U-1, take U-1
Mark your steps
Mark your breath
Before the war
Before Japan
Take U-1
Don't be the last
Don't be the last
To see
Take U-1
Freedom's free

Improvise your life
Think illegal, think awhile
Improvise your death
Realize your life

Here for the music
Here till 6 A.M.
Smoke a big fat brother joint
Sing out while you can
Here for the people
People for the world
Circling in your time machine
Space is really slow
Now stop...

…stop at the window
(smash
exit sunken girl
the glass)
Fry the cobblestone
(smash
go and do your thing
the glass)

Wake up every hobo
Let him praise and sing
Vagabond caravans ride again
The days of Spirit's spring
Aufwachen
Der Slum
Für Zeit und Ewigkeit
Viva Zapata
Viva Afrika
Vagabond caravans
Ride again
Franco no, but Spain
Oh Spain...
To be your man
Again

Steh auf Berlin
First on the list…
Then Spain
Priceless
Vain

Afrika Polen
Wake up!
Afrika Polen
Gar nicht
Afrika Polen
Steh the fuck auf
Für Zeit und Ewigkeit
Polen Afrika

Take U-1
Escape police
Take U-1
Escape
Take U-1
Run for your life
They'll shoot you if they can
Prisons cold and weary
Death mild and weak

Take U-1
Escape police
There's still so much to see
Jetzt aufwachen der Slum
Für Zeit und Ewigkeit
Viva Zapata, viva Afrika
Für Zeit und Ewigkeit

Black youth, white youth
Under one skyline roof
Microphones tear down the homes
Sun arrives, new parks are born

Death to the city...

Black youth, white youth
Under one prison roof
Turntables scream ignited
"Hare hare supermarket"

Death to the city...

Afrika Polen
Wake up!
Afrika Polen
Gar nicht
Afrika Polen
Steh the fuck auf
Für Zeit und Ewigkeit
Polen Afrika

Merge the scenes forever
Power stands as one
Soul love, heart stove
Prisons open wide
"With the power of your soul
anything is possible"
Anything you couldn't do
Anywhere you wouldn't go

Troublemakers, undertakers
Death-lovers, mindblowers
Pill-takers, smile-fakers
Standing in Ulysses' sunshower
Slave ships circle forward
Black entity
Grow your beards, lose your teeth
Meltdown unity

In death
We're free

Afrika Polen
Wake up!
Afrika Polen
Gar nicht
Afrika Polen
Aufwachen
Für Zeit und Ewigkeit
Polen Afrika
Immer und immer und immer
Die Zukunft hat jetzt keine Stimme

Yeah
Weißes Kreuz an der Tür
The only child survives
White born devils at the door
Gotta get out til midnight
Weißes Kreuz, keine Macht
"Keine Macht für
Niemand"
Drogen bleiben Drogen
Mitternacht kommt Mitternacht
Come Schamasch
Come Schamasch
Save us from their midnight
Wake up!
There's a white bloody cross
At your white bloody door
Leave the child alone
Let the white child go

Afrika Polen
Wake up!
Afrika Polen
Gar nicht
Afrika Polen
Aufwachen
Für Zeit und Ewigkeit
Polen Afrika

Immer und immer und immer
Die Zukunft hat jetzt keine Stimme

Pirate winter radio
milky fingers
paper whores
cruel sunsets
pave New York

in blood
cough
dead cow's sky
linens of youth
scribble the bribe
arms in chains
feet still free
running in spades
against the night
Lorca one
Andalusia none
Lorca one
Andalusia none...

Take U-1
Forget the sun
Vagabonds of sex and time
Take U-1
Leave no mark
Leave the borders
Sick, depart
Leave the borders sick
They're art
Take U-1
Make it fast
Join the hunt
Be the cleanse

Keine Welt
Keine Welt
Keine Welt
Für die Kinder

Keine Welt
Keine Welt
Keine Welt
Für Niemand

Vagabond caravans
Crawling through the land
Vagabond caravans
Crawling through the land
Immer und immer und immer
Die Zukunft hat jetzt keine Stimme

Transmission ends...
Transmission ends...
Transmission ends...
Trans/
cut

"Exit Daylight"

Exit daylight
Not accustomed to that tight bright light
I'm loose on the string,
Waiting for the night
Loose all the time
The string keeps pulling me
The sky is dancing me
Loose all the time
Starless, free
Exit daylight
I live by the lamp of escapism
Immature, but a honest substitute for revolution

Unmatched
Found guilty only when they want me to
I'll own up,
You just let me come back
To the steady twilight zone
Tell you all about that girl
It was she who held the gun
I was only
Choosing the house
It's flawed
The eye on my hat is seething
Blood from your rat cage dawn
Exit daylight
It's the opposite I own

Exit daylight
Oh I'd love to change the city or name
Both there, no matter where do I go
It's stuck like the face to the man
The suit's too tight
I'll get rid of that Italian look
Complete with this woman
Complete with the shoes
I'll get my money back
I'm gonna start anew

Quit this poet Hokey Pokey
Make a movie or two
Immature, but a honest substitute for detention

"Early Misty"

Early Misty
Coming down the mountainside
Early Misty
You're my bride

Early Misty
Resting at the riverbed
Early Misty
Spiral hands

Breathing slow
Pulse within
Early Misty
Stranger dream

Night's engines whisper
Leaving galaxy
Early Misty

Leaving galaxy
Exploding in clusters
Finally free
Infinite road
Supernova bird

"Forty"

We'll take a bottle
Of the cheapest wine
Go to Forty
Spend some time
Take a sip
That's how it is
Highway behind us
The concrete bid
Writing more
Talking less
Forty knows it
Drugs don't help
He got some for later
He got some for later...
Horizon's shaken
My cocktail glass
Filled with piss
The blackbird's nest
Sit right back
Enjoy the night
Poor catholic girls
By my side
Forty laughs
Drives the bus
Take us back, please
Take all of us
And we'll pay you later
And we'll pay you later
Solemn sea
Bitter land
Anonymous ships
Quarantine flags
Strangers came
Once again
The circle has come to a full stop
Ain't it a shame
Where's your heart
I got none
Forty bought it
Long ago
So he can have it later
He can save it later

3 years back
I played guitar
With Pete the Roman
He played the drums
Learning tricks
From jazz LPs
He was good
Too good for all this
I heard he died
A lousy death
Heroin
Peter Pan
Jazz will catch up later
Jazz will catch up later
We'll take that bottle
Fill it up again
Go to Forty
Midnight men
Mystics shuffle
With the wine
Greener hills
Easier time
Silver dollar
Fits the hole
Worker's spirit
Don't get old
I'm sure it'll pay you later
I'm sure it'll pay you later...

"Fake Poet"

Fake poet am I, the empty page,
Dada propaganda
Always too late
Field of death for my ink
King of the sludge
Bug on the wall
The cheapest whore
Fake I

The only one in this black room space
Tarot cards and a backwards weaved prayer
Lord of the flies, spit in your ash
Future corpse in the present tense
I'm trash
Fake’s best

Rumor has it I'm into the dark
Lines admit it, they've no better place to park
I'm no shaman, that's already been done
I'm in need of a guru myself
The radical counterclockwise
Sun
How come you mix up religions
If there's only one
That's fake
I cum

Fake poet am I, a pest in your pie
A nail in your shoe,
A needle in mine
A junkie am I, the portrait, the rehab
The ride
Came home from SF
Didn't like what I saw
Rumor has it I'm twice that old
SF's cold

All stars have moved to LA
Fake poet am I, the empty page
A lover of fiction, a maker of worlds
Venus in furs and her favorite toy
Both to one, one in three
I'm my father's father
The river of sleep
I'm fake
You're free

2 Poems

The Old Soul

The old soul knows
Exactly
What the young soul is still not aware of
Poignant meetings, programmed existence
Karmic devils of pure belongings
Burning at stakes of freedom
Pyres of youth at Eden’s black borders
Or plain combinations of reflex
And thought
Bodily odors
Saliva on ashes
Phallic stones
On levels adjusted to ear
Hearing marble
And eye seeing nothing but white
While lovers adjust to
The ocean’s wild side
The old soul knows where the
Trees fall down
The cycle returns
The fortress rebuilt
Management of fury and cardiac
Smiles
Arrives exactly there when expected

Indians Talk

Indians talk with the stars
Full circle – response
Chants and sweeping voices
Rhythm of earth and nothing but her
She that the living please
Only – she that cries not for the dead
Indians sit while the knowledge
Revolves
Evolves and resolves
All endings of hell
To carve new beginnings of heaven
While new cities form ashes
And deaths form puddles
And gardens so slowly grow out
Of windows and sidewalks and walls
No lifts, doors
No phones, no jackets, no homes
No high rise blocks, no shirts, no coats
As the Indians talk with the stars
Waiting for tribal
Sunrise

"Midnight in Poznan"

In Poznan, the midnight’s painted riddles
Moonbeams and butterflies awake
The girls are all dancing in circles
In Poznan, the midnight’s bare
Hear the jazzy combo sway and sway
Let the sound take you away

In Poznan, the midnight’s parallel to dawn
It’s sometimes hard to accustom to this sight
But uh stars are directed at Orion
And the mother of all beings’ burning bright
Hear the jazzy combo begging for life
Let the sound be your bride

In Poznan, the midnight’s white as snow
You would think you’re forever in Atlantis
Join the feast at the borders of the kingdom of sleep
Let the dreams be your passports to elation
And uh hear the jazzy combo play
Let the sound make your day

Yeah in Poznan, the midnight’s on the radio
The waves are uh pointed at your brain
And they rip through depression and frustration
And they drive all the girls insane
Hear the jazzy combo swing and sway
Let the swing take you away

Yeah in Poznan, the bass men are on fire
Underwater blurbs of amazing worlds
You cross your legs avoiding their desires
But the bastards always hit the accurate chords
Hear the jazzy combo whisper words of love
Let the sound resonate you above
Hear the jazzy combo whisper words of love
Let the sound guide you way above

"In Their Distant More"

Leave essentials
The triviality of action
Figure in
Vent affections
Move on
Sing your song

...time was
Was time...
In their distant more
One voice, a call

Statuary, faintly comic
A parasite
In human form
Enter the statement
Gorgeously slain
There, in death’s uniform

...time was
Was time...
In their distant more
One voice, a call

The unimportant baldness of time
Human falseness in every rhyme
Permanent moderns
Great tragic derived
Long-distant enjoyment
Long-distance tonight

...time was
Was time...
In their distant more
A call

Predominated
In interest’s proportion
Intrinsically something
Capriciously entered
His contact
His actions
Her motions