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Manuel Yang © 2003


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The inarticulate gasps of histories in a single bullet,
bloodied and groaning,
we are coming through this vicious, dialectical hurdle again.
Terrible beauty is dying a grisly death,
Israeli grenades blasphemously cachinnating in a Jerusalem Muslim shrine today,
today that can be any day, pornography of sublime on endless repeat,
no wonder the pasts of eviscerated bodies & the present of smashed skulls
intermingle and lose shape like cannibalistic orgies of these truncated anatomies,
knocking us out cold among unreadably scarred and tortured rib cages of our infernal bibles.

A self-styled knight of the ancien régime once pulverized the insurgent dream of Bastille
into the aesthetics of terror, brandishing a lance of purity and equipoise
into the beautifully black heart of infidel mobs in motion,
and that murderous dialectic like a surgeon's rusted knife continues to cut up
the corpse of a dream that refuses to die, an angry memory still fluttering its eyelids,
perhaps fluttering to a monstrous resurrection, Frankensteined Lucifer of our desires.
I sometimes wake up embroidered in B-movie nightmares of the living dead,
a long march of severed hands, razor-sliced eyes, decapitated torsos, incinerated entrails
shitting, groaning, and killing their way into the laboratory of empire,
a proletarian Sherman's march of putrefied flesh
burning their way through the Shanxi province of real history's end.

But memory subsides and so do desires,
wistfully disenchanted shadows of lovers forever entwined
in a detonated freeze-frame of guns & jetfighters.
Our Mt. Vesuvius drowns us in a gaseous lava
of so many fucking all-quiet-on-the-western-fronts
even before the mothers of the ceaselessly disappearing
have started to prepare the coffins, let alone the silent rituals of their fierce, mournful dance.

This is a song I hate, an ugly apocalypse without God or demons,
and the curses of the snuffed monsters shall be the first barbaric tongue
of the new sublime of permanent war communism.




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