THE FEE FOR
LIBERATION IS
DEATH
Ask around : anyone you know. How do I get
out of here? Yeah, yeah, you know the answer.
-
The icicle man has come aruond and painted
the park white. The gardner has come by and,
just as well, done his deed : he's marked the
oasis for greens and for reds. Blossoms mean
nothing to him, nor to any of his kin.
-
This is the way of all flesh. I have read the
books and the chapters - all those little
pamphlets they throw about in the churches
of Rome and Gomorrah. Dead popes on their
knees, naked fathers and brothers in sin.
-
You, my kinsman, are as well marked as the
rhebus monkey : you will not get out of here
alive. They are gunning for you at the border,
and under trucks, and in barns and behind
bales of hay. If worse comes to worse, they'll
just burn you out with a curse. I am serious too.
-
I sit here, and I watch. The two cars meet, park,
and one driver joins the other, in a black VW Jetta.
They light up their evening joint - he feels her tits,
she gives him a kiss. This goes on each day. I live
here, across the street. They go away. I stay.
Life is a cyclical sickness, no?
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