Room 173

The future starts today.
The future is fresh!
The future will be repeated,
broadcasted & distributed.
The future will be obsolete.
The future is overrated.
The future ain’t what it used to be.
The room of the future.
The future? Just a season.
The future is here and now.
Oh please, always talking about the future…
The future is a chest of broken mirrors,
a boot stomping a human face, again and again.

Room 174

in the interminable boredom of this sandbox

Room 175

They say Kardashev III civilisations,
who can harness whole galaxy energy
may well live inside supermassive black holes:
sounds legit, demigodlike, arses-hiding;
me, I hang with children and witches all day
avec des enfants, mit Hexen I do dance
and the red plain gives no shelter, not even
under red rocks, no shadow’s like full shadow
says the wise, and the star makes a fool of me
(a carrion is for ants & for the sunbeams)
我 情不自禁 地 笑 个 不停.

Room 176

the twirliest vessels got stuck
(try with a hymn, the docks laugh):
a flotsam of stimulants.
coffee vigil, unwanted;
dopaminergic plateaux
of coke making creation
im-possible – just tending:
under-the-counter plegines,
a thrill & a shame being not
aritmetical enough;
speeds harsh honesty rustwhite
blade in nights slow of headaches
and flushes of aspirin,
the room is a bathroom, hot
showers may melt power back;
hours staring nude pictures
in series with no effect,
how come did i buy that print
(reminder: get matcha tea)
a god with a coyote head

Room 177

Quite alarming, says the detective.
Heaps of symbolic objects
like rubbish sorted by scavengers
mounds of black bishops & queens
of huge dice and capitals and horns
tin cups, swords with no edge, staves,
a clearing where the dishlarge coins were;
black sacks of foul smelling clubs
hairy as flies, ropy hearts, shineless
diamonds, spades scattered
on the ridden sand, where the sun beats;
and towards the sea a pile
of huge menorah, like wavebreakers.
There the girl, the explorer,
walks by: looks like the beach of our prime,
yet if you were here you’d be
your body retrieved by fishermen.
You’d be that, in the damp dawn.

Room 178

o troops of dread, wrath hounds
leaving my fair city
with a hanged man dangling
high from each lamp-post, o
most sad boulevard show!
yet nobody will see
the man flogged, crucified,
still, in purple and blue,
sole company a bed rack
in a locked room somewhere

a woman is washing
ash hair with a white
block of soap, one son lost
one son hidden, she sings
and her madness (she fries
thorns in a pan, at night)
clears a spring still all ice
calling an april of hemlock & fires

The hours of folly are measur’d by the clock,
but of wisdom: no clock can measure.

Room 179

I am son of the earth and of the starr–oof
(a punch)
Priests, patrons, you are wrong, I do not understand your law–ouch au argh
(a punch, another; a kick on the ribs)
Nothing is vanit–
(a cane hit on the back of the head. A squall of kicks)

Room 180

THEN BEAUTY CAME

then Beauty came,
or was it Kindness?
It doesn’t really matter:
what matters, is that the boys
(hurry up, boys! an’hush!)
got her and knocked her good
and threw her in a trash compactor
which got stuck.

Let us consider now where the great souls are.