Apocalyptic Dim Sum

Huge armchair presiding the scene
It has claws
It has horns
Right behind the corner the poor amazed woman takes off her jaw, screams the song of your generation.
Holds her head.
Frenzy is the word tattooed on everyone’s wet tongue.
She is a visitor in this eternal coordinate.
A hand appears asking for a fix of reality a fix of her breasts against the dark mirror of the morning.
My feet hover on the green solid grass.
I see the armchair’s horns pointed at the woman’s armpit in a frenetic dance of accordions from hell.
We are down
We are spitting mud
A businessman blows his head right in the middle of the main avenue to prove nothing at all.
On his suicide note he wrote “I have no reason to do this.”
The blood dripping from his left middle finger has been writing on the pavement for days: “I have eaten my own generation – I have swallowed my own guts”.
The woman swinging in the armchair picks the words with her fine marble teeth attached to her golden movable jaws attached to her thin metallic neck attached to her very precious self and sings sings sings a new hymn
Beats at a new rhythm
Shouts from the exact center of her ribcage a single chord.
These words are the bangs and the booms of our city lives of our cloaked gloom of our instinctive dam-dam
“Speak that tongue. Beat it to this rhythm. Beat it ‘til it hurts. Don’t be the nothing. Beat it all along. Speak that tongue. Shout that tongue. Dance that tongue in your mouth until you rule the world”.

The bright morning builds precise patterns on my mind.