In the distant depths of some desolate land
Something is dying.
Its heart-chest rises and falls eratically to some
unsung song that exists only in its
decaying maggot-infested mind.
Somewhere in the distant depths of some desolate land
Something is dying
And I want to watch it happen
I want to watch the fall and the rise and make love to the rhythm of its gasps.
I want to savour the final death rattle deep within its chest and listen to it
scream and feel within it the
anguish and the
terror and the
disinterest of the
"Much to many" of the
people who once rose to Revolution but now rise to nothing but the
perverted intention of hackers and
children in raising the
ratings of video games.
I want to make love to the rhythm of its death gasps
and hear within its vibrating
death rattle the
worry of disillusionment that has made itself
increasingly known in the years that pass and the
glazed over eyes of the
'Reality' watchers and their fashion designs and the worry of
not wearing the brands instead of the
people not eating and
people not sleeping and
people who can no longer stand the
exploitation of the workers a million miles away sweating to the
sweet taste of your
People worrying of personal experience and the
You need to worry.
You're selling yourself, not just your vision.
You need to worry.
You need to sell yourself.
Whatever happened to personal identity?
Whatever happened our nation?
And the final Wagneristic power-chord resounding in a shattering climax of
Something in some distant desolate Somewhere is dying. And I want to make love to the rhythm of its gasp and hold it sotightsoclosewithinme that you can no longer tell where one begins and where the other begins.
Something in some distant desolate Somwhere is dying and it is our country, and it is our "Much To Many" that no longer cry out in the resonant voices of Voltaire and Lenin, Marx and Nietzche, Che and Hugo. Something in some distant desolate Somewhere is dying and it is our knowledge that we apply soundly to knowing which celebrity is married to which and the inner-most workings of their sex lives, even as we condemn our own to be taboo.
Something in some distant desolate Somewhere is dying and it is the remains of our much too torn country.
Something in some distant desolate Somewhere is dying as I make love to its gasps.
--The Red Baron